The Sleeper Awakes: The Lord of Mists
by The Wayland Smith
Summary: There are hidden secrets beneath the skin of the world, secrets which should not be awoken. It is Harry's fourth year and there more powers than Voldemort alone moving against the wizarding world. In the quiet of the English hills legends are moving and the Sidhe host is stirring. Yet motives are rarely what they seem and among the fey this may be particularly true ...
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **If I had the rights to Harry Potter I do hope that I would not be writing fanfiction about it. All rights belong to the very impressive mind which created it in the first place - J.K Rowling.

**A/N:** Please tell me what you feel would improve this piece and my writing style. I've had a little difficulty demonstrating scene breaks and so they are now marked by a pale grey line. If someone would like to volunteer to beta this it would be very much appreciated.

**Harry Potter: The Sleeper Awakens**

**Prologue**

_Rex quondam rexque futurus._

_Le Morte d'Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory_

A breeze drifts over the hilltop wafting motes of dust in the evening air. A tall man dressed in robes the colour of a winter marsh, with a hood thrown back over his shoulders stands atop the hill, waiting. He is pale with a build more reminiscent of a grey hound than a human, his eyes are shadowed by his brow, long brown hair floats around his face as he stands in the wind. The one for whom he has been waiting arrives with no more than sound a snap of the fingers. She steps from the empty air and he turns to look into the cowl of her hood which covers her face. For a few moments the hooded figure looks back, before she turns away from the mild gaze. She flings back the hood, waves of hair the colour of a tannin filled river sparkling in the sunlight, spilling over her shoulders.

'Are we ready?' Comes the gentle question.

'Almost, _my lord_. We need to obtain the child of the blood, but the hunt is drawing to a close. A Dumbledore or a Peverell should suffice,' answers the woman, she is tall, perhaps six foot two, and broad shouldered, although she is slightly shorter than the man. Her accent is strange, a mix of a dozen different tongues, though perhaps there is a greater hint of Irish than anything else.

He glances at her, quirking an eyebrow, 'Awfully formal tonight aren't we? Are you practicing for your coven? I keep telling you we do not _need_ their help. No matter though, Dumbledore would, of course, be preferable as a member of the elder line,' muses the man as if pondering a crossword clue, 'but if what you tell me is true it would be impossible. I had thought though that the Peverells were dead though? I believed I had hunted them to extinction. It is so very ..._ inconvenient_ to find out that one is wrong, though in this case I suppose it is a blessing.'

'We believe the youngest escaped you, long enough to sire children,' replied the servant a hint of amusement tinging her voice, the other waved his hand for her to continue, 'his descendants lost their name continuing only in the female line. The relic he stole from you protected at first him and then his children when he passed it on shortly before you discovered him. There may have been other survivors from the line of Cadmus Peverell, but they seem to have died out. The line we do know of is much reduced, only one of them left, a boy of fourteen.'

'A boy of only fourteen? If it were not for the call, if I could not hear my kin still cry out beneath the Hollow Hill I would wait. I have waited long enough as it is though.. His lordship will not be pleased that I have delayed,' The man paused and his companion waited, head bowed, for instructions. The wind was rising and clouds the colour of the sea washed across the sky. The man looked out, across from the hill where they stood over the purple heather of the moorland to a hollow where sat a massive, shinning, golden, stadium large enough to fit ten cathedrals, around it men hurried like ants casting the last of the short lived spells they thought it needed, hurrying for the deadline.

He smiled grimly, 'I have a plan, old friend. There is not long left, now until they host their "Quidditch World Cup",' he tasted the words like strange fruit before shuddering, as if shaking off the taste, 'luck has smiled upon us indeed. My people will rise again, and these little witches and wizards who have forgotten so much of their art will wish they had never been born, for a time.'

'Yes, old friend.'

He turned to her, 'Now Bodmahl, I have business elsewhere, an old friend of mine to meet and an alliance to gain for which I must cross over the sea to obtain her advice at the very least. I will send you instructions on my plan, improvise as you see fit, nothing is foolproof and you may well see something I miss. I trust you to arrange for him to be taken when the time is ripe, do not do it yourself, for I would not wish to lose you,' he said fixing her with his gaze, 'in the end we shall be victorious.'

'I shall not fail you.'

'Good, now drop that ridiculously servile manner. I have one more question, what is his name?'

'Harry Potter.'

* * *

_One Month Later_

A tall pale man in robes the colour of a winter marsh appeared silently on a street in Dublin it was early in the morning, above him a single lamppost flickered, as he stepped from the shadows as if they were a doorway. In the hallways of the Irish Ministry of Magic alarms rang shrilly in the Department for Magical Immigration as the appearance of a non-authorised, magical being by unidentified means was registered. Half a minute later a squad of a dozen highly trained law enforcement officials, known in Ireland as the Garda Draíochta, or Garda for short, apparated onto the street emerging in a series of loud cracks, their arrival unnoticed by muggles because of the silencing wards which had sprung up around the area as soon as the alarms had gone off. Events of this nature were treated as high priority threats. Anyone who could break through Ireland's international wards, which even Dumbledore, supposedly the greatest living wizard in the world, was said to have had some difficulty getting through when he had tested them at the request of the Garda, was someone to be reckoned with. On the other hand, there hadn't been an alarm of this sort which was not later proved to be a mistake since the days of the last great wizarding war, which had ended in 1981. The secondary wards which prevented outgoing magical travel from the area where the initial report had come from were even tighter.

The chief of the unit of the Garda summoned to respond was a man called Eoghan Stiobhard, he had just finished the bitter mug of standard Ministry coffee as the alarms went off, 'Damn it! Morgan get everyone together. Ó Donnchadha,' he shouted round the corner to an adjoining office, 'I meant to call Izzy to tell her I'd be along soon, but the bloody alarm's just gone off in here. Could you call her and tell her I'll be along after I've dealt with whatever prat just triggered the wards?'

'Sure Eoghan, I'll be on it. Do you want me to ask her if she wants you to bring anything back for supper?' The sergeant replied as he carried on polishing his already shining boot, he had had nothing to do for the last two days since he had been called out to deal with a irate, eighty year old, wizard whose floo had turned his robes into a black leather corset, and little else.

'No, it'll wait till I get home.'

With a swirl and crack Eoghan was gone, dropping to his knees the instant he appeared on the cobbled street, green robes swirling around him. He glanced around, relaxing a fraction when he saw only a lean, tall, man leaning casually against the grimy, brick, wall of a building, no wand or staff was in his hands. Pointing his wand at his throat and whispering, '_Sonorus,_' Eoghan spoke, his voice booming off the surrounding buildings, 'Sir, I demand that you raise your hands and do not lower them until you have been thoroughly searched.'

The man ignored the substance of the command, though lifting his face from shadow, he replied in a bored drawl, his crystal clear, English, accent raising Eoghan's eyebrows, 'I really haven't got time for this. What took you so long to get here? I've been waiting for simply ages.' Eoghan was temporarily at a loss for words, continuing with an effort.

'Sir if you do not raise your hands now I shall have to order my officers to attack, we don't want anyone to get hurt tonight.'

'That would be all well and good, but I'm afraid I need to take a present to Bab, Mach and Ana and they really do hate it if you turn up empty handed. Terribly bad form, you know,' said the man apologetically, and then his hand flicked out with lightning speed. A jet of pale silver light flew from his outstretched palm and struck the chief of the Garda Draíochta between the eyes before he could even raise his wand to defend himself. Eoghan's body slumped to the ground, a hole half an inch wide bored straight through the centre of his forehead and out the other side. The other Garda paused for only a second before their training kicked in, there was a reason that no magical force had taken the Emerald Isle since before the days of the warrior wizard Fionn mac Cumhaill. The twelve wizards left spoke as one, power flowing from their wands into a glowing, green, shield which spread like ink in water from their wandtips.

The a look of concern crossed the features of the man who had until now seemed at his ease, as he began to run towards the closest open section of the rapidly closing shield. Sweat poured off the brows of the Garda as they chanted, unable to go faster without risking the possbility of a mistake in the wording which would undo all their work.

'_Pugnare_.'

The man moved faster still, his form barely more than a dark blur.

'_Interficere_.'

The gap was closing the green shield shimmering, mere seconds from sealing shut as the man leapt.

'_Contego_!' Came the unanimous shout, or at least almost unanimous, one of the wizards was a second late and in that second the man stretched like a stream of water pushing through a gap. The magical shield which should have sealed him inside merely clipped him sending him flying into a pile of dustbins and boxes which lay against the building across from him. The Garda turned, one or two feeling the twinge of magical exhaustion. It had been too long since a serious problem had arisen, they were out of practice. He rose smoothly from the pile of crumpled rubbish, stepping calmly between a killing curse and a dark purple streak of light which would have crushed the vital organs. He ducked under the body bind from the Garda in front of him and grabbed the soft flesh of the man's throat before tearing it out, spraying blood over the cobbles. Picking up the large, green robed man he hurled him into the path of half a dozen spells where the corpse exploded in a rain of gore. Pulling a jagged piece of metal from one of the bins out of his hip he hurled it towards another of his assailants. The Garda raised a shield but as the piece of iron struck there was a flash of white light and the shield shattered leaving the man to collapse into a heap as the spell hidden by the obvious physical attack sucked the magic out of him, leaving only an empty husk. The iron shard itself sank with a sickly thud six inches into the chest of the man behind him.

The remaining eight wizards fanned out, warily, firing alternately to maintain a constant stream of hexs, curses, jinxes and even harmless charms and simple coloured lights to prevent the enemy from attacking. The man sank to his knees, blood dripping down his forehead as spell after spell smashed into a glittering cone of light, which he seemed to maintain only by force of will. His head was bowed and the Garda took a step forward sensing imminent victory, unaware of the slight smile playing over his face. As one final volley struck the shield and it began to crumble the man whipped forward one arm and eight pieces of metal, brick and stone smashed into the back of all but one of the Garda leaving them to crumple to the ground. The one who escaped instant death had only done so by luck, her feet tripping over a stray cobble, the cobble meant for her slammed into her wand-arm, snapping it like a twig.

She lay on the ground, unable to apparate because of the still active wards, inching her undamaged hand towards the emergency portkey hidden in the folds of her robe, it would activate the second after her flesh touched it.

'Still alive are you?' A cold, hard, voice asked as the stranger knelt beside. He winced from the burn inflicted on his calf, a number of smaller wounds speckled his body, the blood dripping from them was dark, almost black in the lamplight. She nodded desperate to distract him for long enough to escape.

'Who are you?' Her fingers could almost close on the small, silver, coin which would send her back to Garda Headquaters.

The man turned his head thoughtfully as if pondering the question, 'I have used a great many names, Reynard, Loki, Sir Bertilak upon one occasion, Auberon, Lucifer some have called me, Jack Green, Old Harry, Eileifr, but you can call me Jonathan, Jonathan Holland, I think, it gives a very earnest impression.'

Her fingers touched the coin, 'See you in Hell,' she spat expecting to be whisked away the following second. Nothing happened. She gripped the coin desperately still nothing happened.

'Oh I am sorry, you didn't actually think that would work did you?' His smile was thin and tight lipped as he drew a long handled silver blade and drove it into the underside of her jaw and up through her brain. He drew himself up, stretching slightly, his joints cracking slightly as he limped among the bodies transfiguring them into twelve small, silver, coins before cutting a narrow gap through the wards and slipping away into the air of the night-time city.

* * *

It was another thirty minutes before the back up team arrived on the scene and another fifteen minutes before Sergeant Ó Donnchadha was able to call Eoghan Stiobhard's wife and tell her that it seemed unlikely from what evidence they could find that he would be coming home, and that as soon as the IM (Investigatory Mages) had managed to recreate what they could of the scene he would tell her the results. What he did not tell her was that already seem that one man had, by using little more than a few highly controlled summoning charms and a couple of unidentified spells killed twelve of the best magical law enforcement officers in the world.


	2. Bagmen and Tents

**Disclaimer: **The chances of me owning Harry Potter and any related works are, however, much I might wish otherwise, nil. All characters, and the story itself belong to J.K Rowling.

**A/N: **As you will of course note this does in someways stick rather closely to the book, I promise that in later chapters things start going off the rails somewhat more, although there are significant differences here.

**Bagmen and Tents**

_If you are out of trouble, watch for danger._

Sophocles

Harry stumbled heavily as the portkey slammed his feet into the ground, only to be knocked over by Ron a second later as the tall red-head landed on top of him forcing his breath out. He wondered if he would actually be able to walk once Ron finally got off him, the landing had left him with the unpleasant feeling that his feet had almost been torn off. Harry tried to stand up, but Ron was only just picking himself up and as Ron's knee accidentally landed on Harry's already bruised stomach he came to the conclusion that his friend really had been eating too much, it felt as if he weighed a ton. The portkey landed inches from his nose with a heavy thud leaving a deep indent in the soft earth before a flash of bluish-white light shot off up into the mist. As Ron heaved himself up, his increasingly gangly form swayed slightly, and Harry sucked a much needed breath of air back into his lungs.

'Merlin, you're a lump Ron.'

'I wish you were Harry, I swear, grindylows are no where near as boney as you are, no wonder Mum keeps insisting she needs to feed you up.'

Mr Weasley, Mr Diggory and Cedric were still standing, their clothing only ruffled by the howling wind from the portkey. All around them were the others groaning slightly. Cedric reached out a hand to pull him up, a grin flickering across his face.

'You've got to tell me how to do that sometime,' said Harry, still slightly winded.

'Maybe,' was all the reply he got.

As Harry looked around he realised that they were standing on top of a deserted moorland, a thick damp grey mist coiling around them. The earth was grey and sandy, at least where it was not covered in heather.

'Ah the seven past five from Stoatshead Hill, you've arrived then. Whoever did the magic on those portkeys was horribly sloppy, you're half a minute late, I'm afraid and about quarter of a mile out, we had to apparate over here to find you when the beacon went off,' a clearly bored voice half-announced. A couple of rather eccentrically dressed wizards in a variety of muggle clothes approached them with flustered expressions and took the now used portkey from Mr Weasley's outstretched hand.

'Morning Basil,' said Mr Weasley.

'Morning Arthur,' replied one wizard dressed in a kilt and poncho, 'I'm afraid I can't talk right now, lots of international portkeys are coming in and whoever did that job did it worse than this one, we've already managed to send the ambassador for Russia into the public loos. Here's a map, your campsite is …' he paused to look at an extraordinarily long list, 'this one,' he declared triumphantly circling it in red, and handing it over before hurrying them along while he began to deal with the Diggorys who nodded a polite goodbye. Harry heard him muttering as they set off along the damp hilltop, 'Where have those D's got to, I swear if John has charmed them to move around again …' the rest of his sentence was lost in the muffling fog.

It took them sometime to finally arrive at the campsite, despite the fact that it was only quarter of a mile. Mr Weasley explained that there had been additional wards put up which altered time slightly in order to give the ministry enough time to respond to threats, for instance hill-walking muggles.

'Wouldn't muggle-repelling wards do that though?' Asked Hermione joining in the conversation.

Mr Weasley looked mildly embarrassed as he replied, 'The Ministry felt it was advisable given suggestions that a public event like this could be a target for an attack by any revolutionary groups. Not of course that anything of that sort would be likely to happen,' he added noticing the looks on their faces.

'Ah, here we are.' Before them stretched a field filled with hundreds upon hundreds of tents planted on a gently rising slope the top of which was obscured by a dark wood which lay brooding over the campsite, the mist entwined in its branches.

A small cottage waited by the entrance, by the cottage sat a short, balding man, vaguely reminiscent of Professor Flitwick, dressed in vermilion robes. He was reading a copy of a magazine on the cover of which was a photo of an intricate looping piece of golden rope, above ran the title, _The True Power of the Celtic Knots Revealed:_ _An Essay in Old Magic_, by Luna Lovegood, the magazine itself proclaimed itself _The Quibbler_. The man looked up as they approached and grinning greeted Mr Weasley warmly before noticing Harry. Harry groaned inwardly, but surprisingly the man controlled himself.

'Where's the proper owner then, Will?' Mr Weasley asked the small man.

'We sent him and his wife off on a long all-expenses paid holiday, easiest way to do it, we don't have to keep everyone from doing a bit of magic, and he doesn't get his brain fried by too many obliviations. Now all you have to do is give me five galleons and that will cover your stay, we'll change them into muggle money and he keeps his profit. Anyway here's a map and you can pick any empty spot,' the small man squeaked. Harry got a slight feeling that Mr Weasley was a bit disappointed that he would not be getting to do things in the muggle way, but it did not seem to suppress his mood too much and before long they were ready to head off among the tents to look for a suitable pitch. It was only as they turned to go that the Will remembered to shout out after them that they would probably be best off heading towards the top of the field as that was where most of the other British were, and that with the situation as it was at the moment it was probably best to be around others you knew.

'What was all that about?' Harry wondered out loud as they set off up the field.

'Dad says there been a few diplomatic problems recently with one or two of the countries and so everyone's a bit on edge, mostly everyone's okay, but there have just been a few problem's recently. We managed to accidentally send the wrong party to greet the dignitaries from somewhere or other and they got rather annoyed with us I think,' answered Ron, earning a surprised look from Hermione.

Harry looked about in wonder as they wandered up through the campsite, while the Weasley's trudged along still tired from the lack of sleep he and Hermione pointed out to each other particularly marvellous sights, turning it into a game where anything which both acknowledged truly splendid earned the spotter a point. One tent, if it could be called a tent, a tower formed entirely of swirling leaves which went through a constant cycle of the seasons, though they never revealed what lay within even as the leaves reached winter and turned from crackling brown to mere skeletons of their old selves, earned Harry two points. However, a tent which lay as but a reflection in a pool of water so that Harry and Hermione were unable to figure out how anyone could enter, until the owner came along and simply stepped onto the surface of the water before sinking slowly out of sight until she too became a part of the reflection, evened the score.

The mist was beginning to clear as they tramped up the field and around them they could see other tents, some more remarkable, some less, as if by and large while most witches and wizards had intended to roughly mimic muggles, but forgotten along the way that canvas would not generally support three stories, chimneys and turrets, not to mention self assembling, flowing, fountains here and there they had decided to forgo any hint of deception. Mr Weasley grinned, delighted and amused by the ever varying array of tents, he was turning to speak to Harry when suddenly they found themselves at the edge of the wood at the top of the field and beside a empty space with a small sign. As Mr Weasley touched the sign with his wand to claim the pitch the word 'Weezly' appeared.

'Close enough,' Mr Weasley said happily, 'Now anyone want to help me put up the tents?'

'Can't you just use magic Dad?' George or Fred asked sleepily.

'Well, I could, but you never know when you might be caught without your wand, very useful to have muggle skills,' he looked around rather desperately in the hope that one of the others might have an irrepressible urge to help, before his eyes latched onto Harry.

'What about you Harry? Come on, give me a hand here.' It was not too long before Harry and Mr Weasley, with a great deal of help from Hermione had managed to set up the tents, indeed the main problem was stopping Mr Weasley trying to poke holes in the fabric. As they worked Hermione explained that whenever she went to France her family always camped, which she laughingly claimed was largely so that they could more easily limit the number of books she took with them. Apparently when they first went camping when she was six she smuggled most of her story books into the car with them and her father had only found out when upon opening the bag which supposedly contained his clothes he discovered it was filled with novels. After that he had always conducted a thorough scanning of all bags before they set off, though it had turned into something of a game and Hermione generally tried to smuggle two or three books past him.

By the time they had finished they were left with two tents which seemed as far as Harry could tell as unmagical as any normal muggle tent he had ever seen, not that the Dursley's combined hatred of tents 'unhygenic canvas slums' as Vernon called them and their horror at the idea of having Harry with them on a holiday had ever given him much of a chance to see tents. The main problem was that while the tents might have fitted one or even two people each at a pinch, as long as the people in question did not really mind having no personal space, there was no way that they could fit the party of ten that would be there once the older Weasley brothers, Bill, Charlie and Percy arrived. It was only after Mr Weasley had crawled through the flap and called that they should follow that Harry and Hermione found out the solution.

Hermione had entered first and Harry heard her let out a little gasp of surprise before he poked his head in too and found that he was facing a moderately sized three room flat, fully furnished and complete with a bathroom and kitchen. A connecting door led into the adjoining tent and frosted glass windows looked out onto the campsite. The furniture and rugs were oddly mismatched as if the owner had gone to several different auctions for old furniture and picked out a variety of comfortable items, but forgotten in-between purchases what the last thing he or she had bought looked like.

'It's not for long but it should do,' said Mr Weasley, viewing the four bunk beds which crowded the bedroom, 'it is Perkin's tent, or was anyway, he gave it to me in exchange for taking on a bit more of his work for a week or two. To be honest I don't think he wanted it much any more, getting too old for this type of thing. Right anyway, looking at it the only thing we need is water, do you three want to go off and get that?' He asked looking over at Harry, Ron and Hermione.

'Yeah, sure, there's a tap on the map here,' said Ron as he entered completely unconcerned by the proportions of the tent.

'Right while you do that the rest of us can get some wood for a fire,' said Mr Weasley.

'Haven't we got an oven though?' Ginny questioned as she poked her head into the tent.

'Yes, but, er … it doesn't work,' said Mr Weasley hurriedly, 'I wouldn't try it, Perkins said last time he did the thing tried to bite his arm off.' Ginny paled slightly, but Harry got the sneaking suspicion that Mr Weasley wasn't telling the entire truth.

Harry, Ron and Hermione, accompanied by Ginny set off across the dew laden grass, skirting a massive palace like tent which blossomed from a small plot as if it were a gigantic flower. The sun was peaking over the edge of the wood and as they walked it thinned the last few tendrils of mist. They had been walking for only a little time when Ginny's face brightened as she caught sight of a girl with straggly, waist-length, blonde hair, very pale eyebrows, large eyes and bare feet who was ambling among the tents.

'Luna! Over here,' Ginny yelled. Ron tried to take the opportunity to head off without his younger sister, but Hermione hauled him back and Ginny began the introductions. Ron apparently knew Luna vaguely as a friend of Ginny's from childhood and a neighbour, but the look which Luna cast at Hermione was disconcertingly penetrating as if she had heard something about the brown haired girl and was wondering if it was true. Even so it was not nearly as unnerving as when Luna turned her attention to Harry.

'You're Harry Potter,' she said, as if telling him the fact, 'you know I always thought that you'd be rather more …' she paused as if searching for a word, but after an awkward silence just as Harry was about to respond she continued, 'I suppose you will be, I get this sort of thing wrong far too often.'

'Nice to meet you Luna, I'm afraid we can't really hang around, we're supposed to be bringing back some water for Mr Weasley.' Ron and Hermione followed suit saying their goodbyes they started off again, though Ginny decided to stay and talk to Luna before going back to the tents.

As they carried on through the campsite they discovered themselves first confronted by the Irish tents in a wave of green and shamrocks, where they met Seamus and Dean. For some reason a great many of the flags around the Irish tents were at half-mast and there seemed an air of tension beneath the excitement for the tournament which Seamus declined to explain. Amusingly close, given their rivalry in the up coming game, lay the Bulgarian encampment where pictures of the star seeker Victor Krum stared grimly from every tent, Ron's reaction which verged on hero worship brought back the smiles which the oppressive atmosphere which had come over them among the Irish tents. Harry listened with interest as Ron explained to the pair of them as they went how it had ended up with Bulgaria and Ireland in the final, apparently England had been crushed along the way by Transylvania with a score of 390–10, a score so poor that Ron and Harry winced every time the match was mentioned; however, Harry noticed that Hermione was less enthused by Ron's account of the previous matches, as her eyes were flickering over their surroundings.

As they worked their way towards the tap Harry began to think that the size not only of the tents, but the campsite itself was deceptive as they came across more and more of their schoolmates, when they encountered Cho Chang Harry as he attempted to wave managed to whack himself over the head with the empty saucepan he was carrying for water, much to his embarrassment and it was only the sight of the tap which spared him from a ribbing by Ron and Hermione.

Harry was keen on seeing more of the campsite, but Ron wanted to get back to the tent quickly to catch up on some of the sleep he felt he had unfairly missed, and so taking a couple of the pails and leaving two of the saucepans with Ron once they had been filled Hermione and he set off among the tents. It was not long before they were out of sight of Ron that Hermione led him to one side.

'Hermione, what are you up to?'

'Well, I was looking up how it is that they monitor under-aged magic, and it seems that they can only really do it to muggle-born students practically speaking, and even then only if they aren't near other wizards. It's the reason they thought you were the one who cast the hovering charm that house-elf you mentioned did in our second year. When we're surrounded by so many of age wizards, especially when the point at which one comes of age varies in different countries by so much, well there is no way they will know we've performed magic. I don't know about you, but there is no way I want to carry these buckets back to the tents.'

'Why didn't you tell Ron?'

'He picked the lighter load on purpose, if he didn't notice that someone put a slow weight increasing charm on them is his own fault. Isn't it terrible what the twins will get up to?' she grinned mischievously as she performed the intricate wand movements for a feather light charm.

Harry looked at her in surprise, 'Where's Hermione and what have you done with her?'

'I had a long talk with my mother at the start of the holidays, she felt that I was taking things too seriously and that I ought to lighten up …'

'And so you did? Just like that?'

'Well no, I took quite a lot of persuasion, but eventually they brought me round to the idea, but not before I stipulated one condition.'

Harry had the distinct feeling that she had probably just decided to stick to her guns until her parents allowed her the condition, even if given her behaviour she already privately agreed with them, 'Which was?'

'Harry, have you actually looked at my face recently?'

Harry gulped, he felt slightly nervous for some reason he couldn't quite pin down, 'Um not especially.'

She opened her mouth particularly wide and for a second Harry thought that she was going to yell at him, but instead she pointed to where her now perfectly normally sized front teeth sat, before explaining, 'I got them to take me to St Mungo's just to get my teeth sorted. To be honest a large part of why I wasn't quite so prepared to have fun was probably the low self-esteem brought about by a dissatisfaction with my appearance, now all I have to do is remember to put even more feather light charms on my bag and win the battle with my hair and everything will be fine. It does also have to be said that being around you has been an influence.'

'Don't you mean a good influence?'

'No, I meant what I said. Still,' she added lowering her voice, 'one can't really help losing a bit of the anti-rule breaking stance after freeing a man about to be subjected to a fate worse than death by a ministry who I'm beginning to wonder if they know what they're doing, twisting the course of time itself, preventing the execution of well … it wasn't justice and that was just last year. I'd have to be incredibly set in my ways not to change.'

'You read a book on self-esteem recently then?' He asked changing the subject slightly, Hermione's tendency to paraphrase from books she'd read with a different particular tone always sounded as if she were forcing air quotes into verbal reality, her explanation of the benefits of shrinking her teeth had all the normal hallmarks of reading a book on psychology. Hermione blushed lightly and Harry instinctively glanced away, heat rising to his own cheeks, then Hermione nodded and suggested that they should start moving again.

* * *

Harry and Hermione wandered through the fantastical tents which filled the campsite, watching the vast mix of different peoples. To one side a group of serious looking African wizards in long white robes were discussing something in deep tones, on another a Spanish witch and wizard were dancing a version of a dance which Hermione declared was a dance peculiar to Aragon, appropriately named an Aragonaise, the main difference from the muggle version was instantly apparent: it took place half a dozen feet above the ground, the purpose was apparently partially to develop magical stamina and precision as each partner had to maintain the levitation without a wand.

The sights were truly incredible, he would never have been able to comprehend the existence of so many different styles of magic had he not seen them with his own eyes, it really brought home the size of the magical world, it seemed that the almost medieval society in which wizard-kind continued to live in had prevented the submerging of the independent cultures, preserving vestiges of bygone eras. While on the one hand it seemed a good thing he noticed that the tents seemed largely segregated by a mixture of ostentatious wealth and nationality. Many bore small flags upon them and the areas often were separated by several extra feet beyond that normal within the different national quarters. Indeed, there was a creeping feeling of isolation, a sensation that eyes were boring into his shoulder blades, glancing at Hermione he noticed that she too had felt it. They started to walk faster, in the distance they could see a large tower-like structure that he recognised as belonging to a tent near the Weasley's. It was only after they had passed the first of the dull, grey, tents, on which was emblazoned a red flag with a blue x across it with thirteen stars upon it, that Harry came to the conclusion that in terms of going the wrong way they had just found themselves at the edge of a very tall cliff. Looking behind them at the people who were slowly moving out of the tents on either side, blocking their passage back he decided that upon reaching the edge of the said imaginary cliff they had discovered that they were in the same field as a _very _angry bull.

'Hermione,' he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, 'I think we ought to just walk really calmly out of here as fast as possible.' She gave a curt nod, but he could see her hand nervously rubbing the wood of her wand which was poking out of her trouser pocket. From the tent infront of them stepped a large man with a thick, grey, beard matted with spilt food, his stomach bulged against a grubby string-vest and his teeth were stained a yellowy-black by the tobacco he was chewing. Hawking it on the ground with a loud cough he addressed them in a heavy southern American accent, 'What are you two kids doin' here? We don't like your sort to come messing with us.'

'We just got slightly lost,' said Harry, doing his utmost not to show the nervous tension he could feel crackling in the air, 'if you just let us past we'll be out of here in no time.'

'Heh, yeah, well, I don't know if we can do that. Yeh see trespassers have to be taught a lesson,' he said rolling up the sleeves on the dirty shirt which was slung over his arms, 'but as you're young un's we'll go soft on you, no magic, this time.'

'Look just leave us alone, we aren't doing any harm,' said Hermione, playing for time, not far away she had noticed the tall, thin, red-haired figure of Percy Weasley coming towards them.

'"Aren't doing any harm",' the man mocked, mimicking her accent, 'listen girlie, you were never the one going to be doing harm.' He nodded to four of the others nearby, younger men who grabbed Harry and Hermione's arms before they could raise their wands to defend themselves holding them still despite their struggles. The pails of water dropped to the ground, the feather light charm lowering them gently so that hardly a single drop of water fell to the ground. A loud crack rang out as a red-robed Percy Weasley appeared in there midst.

'Sir, as a representative of the British Ministry of Magic I demand you release these children immediately!' He snapped his words sending a hush over the surrounding figures, though that could have been his drawn wand. The man with the grey beard grimaced, but seemed to decide it was probably better not to fight a ministry official with a drawn wand. Waving at the men who were holding Harry and Hermione he stepped out of the way. As soon as the men had released them they hurried after Percy.

When they had gone out of sight and were among a group of Indian tents Percy paused taking the opportunity to change his robes back from auror red to the more usual shabby black which he wore, before turning on them, his ears pink with anger.

'What the blazes do you think you were doing in there?'

'Who were they? What was their problem with us?'

'You honestly don't know? Not even you Hermione?' They both shook their heads.

'I've tried to find out about America, but apart from a few mentions of the_Salem Witches' Institute_and one or two quidditch teams there aren't any real mentions since the days of the Civil War.'

'No, I suppose there wouldn't be, the thing is that the civil war hasn't ended for the wizards and witches of America, there aren't even just Confederates and Unionists any more, the old Native American's used the opportunity to rise up in an alliance with a large number of the African American wizards and while they are by and large in an agreement with the Unionists there have been too many disagreements and broken promises for peace for come easily and there are several other groups which have tried to use it as a chance to take power, not to mention the fact that several more extreme religious groups are involved. To be perfectly frank the whole of the muggle U.S.A is a political mess for wizards and witches, on the whole we ignore it, perhaps even cover it up, but there have been increasing rumours in the last year or two that Britain is help the Unionists and Native Americans.'

'How do you know all of this Percy, if even Hermione didn't?' Harry asked.

'I'm in the Department of International Magical Cooperation,' said Percy with a wry smile, 'it's hard not to hear about it.'

'Is it true then, is Britain helping?' Hermione's question came as a surprise, Harry wasn't used to her being the quiet one in a conversation.

'If I told you that, I'd have to kill you,' said Percy with a grin before starting to lead the way back to the Weasley's tent. Harry blinked in surprise as he set off after him, exchanging a glance with Hermione which said: _Did Percy just tell a joke?_

'How did you find us then?' Hermione asked.

'Luck to be honest, Ron was a bit worried about where you'd got to so I went looking, nothing better to do, and unlike him and the twins I'm not trying to catch up on my sleep,' Percy answered as they rounded the corner and arrived at the tents.

'You've been ages,' declared Fred as they came into sight.

'Yeah, we got a bit lost along the way, luckily Percy found us.'

It was with an effort that Harry managed to stop Mr Weasley from burning his finger with the wonder of the matches which he had insisted on using, while Hermione lit the fire. After a pleasant lunch of sausages and a bit of cucumber most of them went for a rest in the tent to catch up on their sleep so as to be fully aware for the game that night.

* * *

It was not long after mid-day when there came a heavy knocking on the flap of their tent, Harry jerked out of the half doze he was lying in on the sofa, blushing slightly as he realised that Hermione was also curled up on the sofa, though while she had started off at the opposite end she seemed to have worked round so that now she was curled up against his chest. Harry delicately extricated himself from her arms and walked over to open the flap, to the side he could hear Fred, George stirring at the knocking, Ron, typically did not seem to have noticed. The older Weasley brothers had gone off to do a bit of their own exploring and a bit of catching up with friends. Harry allowed himself a grin at the fact that, convincing as the tent looked from the outside, the wizards who made it had still managed to forget that normal tent doors do not sound as if they are made from solid oak. As he opened the door he had the distinct impression that he was facing an adult Colin Creevey, admittedly one whose nose had had one encounter too many with a brick wall, and who had decided to camouflage himself as a giant well-built wasp.

'Ah, hello, I was told this was the Weasley tent, but it looks like I was wrong, awfully sorry …' the man paused, noticing the scar underneath Harry's black hair, which had evidently been the main reason for his belief that this was not the Weasley's tent, given their infamously red hair.

'Merlin, you're …' he seemed to catch himself, before continuing sheepishly, shaking Harry's hand with his right, 'sorry, you must get that all the time. Nice to meet you Mr Potter, I'm Ludovico Bagman, but most people just call me Ludo. I'm in charge of the whole show as it were ... I say, you don't happen to know where Arthur's got to do you? We're trying to get all the Ministry personnel together, a blasted storm seems to be blowing up and we need everyone to chip in to put up a barrier to stop it interfering.'

'Isn't the World Cup supposed to be played no matter the conditions?' Asked Harry, slightly bemused, remembering his own quidditch matches which rain, storms and even dementors had singularly failed to cancel.

'Rain would be fine, but this storm looks set to interfere with the building wards, if we aren't careful we could see the entire stadium collapse into a pile of dust! Some idiot in engineering had a bright idea about 'more economical' spells, which they seem to have forgotten the problems with …' Bagman ceased talking, his face had taken on a rather annoyed grimace, but it brightened as it caught sight of Mr Weasley and the twins emerging from the sleeping tent stretching.

'Ah, Arthur, just the man I was looking for. There's been a bit of trouble with the wards, care to come and lend a hand?'

'Of course, Ludo, it would be a pleasure,' said Mr Weasley stepping carefully passed the rucksacks which the boys had dumped on the floor of the tent.

'Eh, you might want a coat old man, it looks like a real tempest's brewing up out there,' added Ludo as he noticed that Mr Weasley was not pausing.

'Oh thanks, by the way, these ones are mine,' he said, pointing at the red-haired children, 'Fred, George, Ron, oh and here's Ginny,' he added as she came through from the other tent, 'and this is Hermione and I suppose you've met Harry?'

'Yes, just now. I don't suppose any of you would like to take part in a bit of a flutter on the game?' Asked Bagman, filling in the silence as Mr Weasley hunted for a raincoat.

'Not now Ludo, oughtn't we to be off?' Replied Mr Weasley.

'Oh come on Arthur, lighten up, this whole thing's for fun, I'm sure we can spare five minutes. Now boys, any of you?'

'They're a bit young really Ludo …'

'We'll go in for thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen sickles, three knuts and,' Fred rummaged through his pockets, 'a fake wand,' he declared triumphantly, 'on Ireland to win and Krum to catch the snitch.'

'Brilliant, absolutely fantastic,' said Bagman as the twins showed him a wand which when waved transformed into a rubber chicken with a loud squawk, beaming so broadly that Harry thought that if faces shone dependent on the breadth of smiles Bagman would have been a miniature sun. On the same principle, he reflected, Snape would literally consume the light around him, at least when Harry was nearby.

'I'll give you five galleons for that,' laughed Bagman as he waved the rubber chicken and it returned to being a wand, 'and I'll take the bet, with excellent odds, you really haven't got a hope …'

'Boys, I don't think you should bet, that's all your savings … your mother –' began Mr Weasley.

'Liven up Arthur, what Molly doesn't know won't hurt her and they're old enough to make their own decisions, anyway, we better be off.'

Mr Weasley looked on helplessly as Bagman jotted down the twin's bet. However, just as they were leaving he struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, 'Drat, almost forgot my wand, where is it now?' He tried to pick up a nearby wand which looked familiar only for it to turn into a rubber grass snake as he dropped it with a shout.

Hunting round for his wand he addressed a question to Bagman who was still waving the rubber chicken around, 'Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?'

'Yes, as it happens, someone sent a message saying they had some information about the whole business if I'd pop over and see them. To be honest I wouldn't be that worried anyway, she's always been a bit dopey, dear old Bertha, I wouldn't be surprised if she wandered back into the office in October still thinking it was July!'

'Wouldn't it be sensible to send someone to look for her though, if this person is wrong after all?' Suggested Mr Weasley tentatively.

'Barty keeps saying the same thing,' said Bagman his wide, blue eyes shining with innocence, before he roared with laughter, 'better watch out Arthur or else you'll end up walking around as if someone sewed your buttocks shut too. Got your wand off we go …' Bagman led the way out of the tent.

It was several hours before a rather wind battered Mr Weasley returned, and proudly announced that the situation had been sorted out, and that they would all have to get ready, the match was about to begin.

**Author's note:**

I decided not to cruelly bombard you with too many notes at the Prologue, so I'm afraid I'm now taking my chance. As you've probably worked out, this is my first attempt at fanfiction, and it is unedited, if anyone wants to volunteer to help, please do so. Also any reviews, particularly constructive criticism, are very welcome. You may notice that I've taken a different line in regards to America than is usual (or at least as far as I am aware), to be honest I am mainly doing this as a bit of a change from the normal 'if Britain falls to the Dark Lord we can expect the U.S.A to step in to save the day'. Every country has its problems, the wizard world of Britain is evidently incredibly flawed, that does not mean that it is necessarily more flawed than any other magical country. Good reading.


	3. The Tempest

**Disclaimer: **Owning a piece of literature, in this case the Harry Potter books, would mean that I'd have written it, and while that may be true in another universe, it is not in this one.

**A/N: **Thank you for reading, all reviews are welcome, this chapter may begin to confirm the first reviewers fear that this will turn into a supervillain fic only solvable by deus ex machina. I hope that I will be able to remedy this and bring about a satisfactory balance, at the moment I am merely trying to show that Harry really cannot as a fourteen year old wizard with very basic training in magic for battles go up against a fully grown wizard.

**The Tempest**

_An horrid stillness first invades the ear,_

_And in that silence we the tempest fear_

John Dryden

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Harry, Hermione and the Weasley's made their way towards the stadium for the World Cup. The evening air crackled with tension, both that of excitement, and of the impending storm. They had set off through the wood to reach the pitch and as they passed out from under the dark, trees which crouched on top of the hill they saw it lying before them, vast and glittering, a great, burning red-gold jewel in the light of the evening sun as it shone through the rapidly shrinking clear sky which lay upon the horizon. Above clouds gathered in massive stacks, thousands of feet high, but lying low over the land, almost turning the evening into night. The wind swept over them pulling at their clothes and sending the girls' hair whipping and flying about their faces. Along the path of yellow limestone which ran twenty feet away from them stood stands selling wares which Harry could only stare at in open mouthed wonder, in one way or another the wizarding world never failed to impress him.

As soon as their feet touched the path a calm fell over them, allowing the to hear the sounds of the crowd, excited voices raised above the babble and whoops and cheers of anticipation. Harry, Ron and Hermione walked side by side, through most of the walk Harry was left to look around himself since Hermione was explaining to Ron what _The Wizard of Oz _was about so that he could understand why she'd been humming a song about a 'yellow-brick road'.

'So, the wizard a squib then?' Ron suggested to Hermione's dismay, 'I mean, if he couldn't actually do magic …'

'Oh forget it Ron, it doesn't matter,' she said, throwing up her hands in defeat.

'But …'

'Ron, what are those?' Harry asked to distract his taller friend, pointing at what looked like a set something in-between opera glasses and binoculars, but with a dial on the side.

'Ominoculars, blimey Harry, its good you noticed them. They're really brilliant, great for seeing all the action close to, how much are they?'

'Ten Galleons,' Ron's face sank, though Harry's quick response put the smile of anticipation back quickly enough, 'here, let me buy you a set as a thank you for this, allowing me to come along and all.'

'Thanks mate, but I shouldn't really …'

'Come on, if you don't let me get them we'll miss the beginning of the match by arguing.'

'Fine, quick then.'

Harry bought a set of ominoculars for Ron, Hermione and himself before running to catch up with the others who had carried on without them. Before they had reached the stadium they were bedecked in the colours of the Irish supporters, as they had promised Seamus, and clutching programmes, courtesy of Hermione who had profusely thanked Harry for the gift of the ominoculars.

Around them on the path lanterns blossomed into life, glowing like distant stars in alternate shades of red, green and gold. Mr Weasley took the lead and began to lead them up into the stadium.

'Seats a hundred thousand,' said Mr Weasley noticing the awestruck look on Harry's face, 'it took a year with a force of five hundred working on it round the clock, though,' he said lowering his voice slightly, 'given the modifications we had to do earlier I think the wards are a little more flimsy than they were. Shows what you get for cheap work …' he trailed off as the reached the ticket booth and the witch took his tickets.

'Straight to the top, Arthur,' said the Ministry witch with a smile, 'you've done well this time, seats in the Minister's own box!' They began to climb up the steep set of stairs, spiralling round and round. It was only as they got closer to the voices of the people above them that Harry recognised the calm and dignified tones of Professor Dumbledore, though it might have been his imagination, flavoured with a touch of amusement.

'Really Padfoot, after you've dragged me off on this expedition I think you do not really have much cause for complaint,' there came an answering whine as if from a large dog, 'well yes of course, and I am quite sure that we will meet him once we get to the seats, but I must remind you that discretion is paramount. We will be sharing a box with the Minister, I need not remind you that he has almost literally sworn to have your hide.'

Harry pressed on up the stairs, but somehow the Headmaster and his almost certainly canine companion managed to remain in the lead. At last Harry and the others burst out from the top of the staircase into the open air once more. Hermione, who had never liked flying stumbled slightly at the sight of the ground several hundred feet below them and for a second the awful realisation that they were balancing themselves on pieces of wood which felt about as solid as matchsticks washed over her, before she pushed it aside and looked up to see Harry greeting a large black dog, and the headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.

'Good evening Harry,' were the words which greeted him as soon as he left the stairs, the knowledge that the headmaster had known all along that Harry had been right behind them seemed to affront the massive black dog beside him, which huffed and looked away, though Harry thought it might have winked at him.

'Hello professor,' Harry searched for the right words, 'it is pleasant surprise to see you and Padfoot here.'

'A surprise? Really Harry, I may not attend every game of quidditch at Hogwarts, but I do my very best to be present at historic events, and it must be admitted our four legged friend seemed quite insistent on coming,' the dog nodded heartily, before realising that the motion seemed a bit out of place and proceeded to scratch its ear with a paw.

'Professor!' Arthur Weasley had emerged from the staircase and herding his children to their seats addressed the aged wizard, 'fantastic to see you here, I didn't know you were coming.'

'There was a sudden change at the last moment, I was brought to realise that it was a chance one simply "cannot miss". Though,' he added after a glance at the dog, 'I think after one hundred and twenty-five years or so a little lee-way ought to be given. Whatever the case,' he continued in a slightly lower tone, 'unless we wish to be dragged over to help Cornelius show off and communicate I suggest we take our seats. By the way, Harry, I may drop by later I believe someone wishes to talk to you.'

Once Harry had taken a seat next to Hermione on the right and Mr Weasley on the left, with Dumbledore (who had much to his chagrin been engaged in conversation with the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, though he seemed to be sharing a private joke with the Bulgarian Minister) and the large dog behind him he switched his attention to the pitch. Harry almost turned as heard Lucius Malfoy's cold tones behind him.

'Ah, Fudge, good to see you here. May I introduce my wife Narcissa, and our son Draco.'

'Wonderful. Delightful to meet you, may I introduce the Bulgarian Minister for Magic? Mr Oblansk, erm I mean, Oblensk … oh damn it all … anyway I'm afraid he doesn't speak any Bulgarian, I mean I don't, he doesn't speak English.'

'Don't worry Minister, I believe all I wish to say to him has already been said,' replied Lucius Malfoy, his tone showing a certain disgust at the idea of speaking to anyone from another country who did not realise that it was their duty to learn whatever language a Malfoy wished to speak in order that they might communicate with him rather than vice versa.

It was evident that Fudge was about to reply when Bagman, his voice magically enhanced announced the beginning of the match as the arena turned red and with a great fountain of fire seventy of the most ethereally beautifully women Harry had ever seen appeared on the pitch.

* * *

Harry and the others were singing raucously as the left the stadium, the twins in particular were exuberant to the point that they were walking quite amicably in a line with an rather uncomfortable looking Percy. Bill and Charlie had bought butterbeers all round and even Mr Weasley was holding one in his hand as he attempted to imitate the jig performed by the leprechauns upon the Irish victory.

Despite the wind which lashed their faces as they left the path to head back to the tent the chill did not manage dampen their spirits and until Harry half collapsed onto his bunk all he could remember was a blur of enjoyment and laughter. Ron's eulogy on Krum's skills as an artist of the air was a highlight which he wished he could always remember, especially as it ended with the twins pulling the sofa he'd been standing on out from under his feet leaving him to sprawl on the scattered cushions on the floor and rather than bothering to get up again Ron had fallen asleep (to Harry, and the twin's, great delight they found later that the ominoculars had been left recording Ron's entire performance).

It was only a few hours later that Harry awoke from dreams of playing the part of seeker in a World Cup and defeating even Krum. At first the noises from outside sounded very similar to the shouts of joy from earlier, but by the time he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and seen that Mr Weasley was shaking his children awake he had begun to recognise the cries for what they were: screams of terror.

'What's going on?' George muttered sleepily, 'can't the Irish keep it down?'

'It's not the Irish,' said Mr Weasley, his face grim and drawn, 'Bill, Charlie, Percy, come with me, we need all the wands we can get. Fred, George, take care of the others, go and hide in the woods till this is over. If anyone attacks you try to check if they're Ministry first, but defend yourselves if needed, best take your wands.'

'Dad, what is it?' Ginny's question was layered with worry and fear.

'It isn't just the Irish who've got hi spirits Ginny, _his _followers are carving a path through the campsites looking for trouble. NOW GO!'

They hurried out of the tent, wands clutched in their hands. Down the hill Harry could see a crowd of figures in black robes, tents exploded into flames around them and people ran shrieking in fear, the light from the fires reflected off their faces as if they were made from metal. At another corner of the campsite Harry could see a miscellaneous group of wizards of all nationalities gathering, apparently led by tough looking Ministry officials in red. The rest of the scene was lost as they entered the wood on top of the hill.

The silence hit them like a wave as they entered the wood, the branches and leaves muffling the sounds of panic and destruction from the campsite. The silence was not peaceful though, and as Harry looked around he realised that in the rush from the tents he, Ron and Hermione must have been separated from Fred, George and Ginny. The stillness of the wood seemed like a worm, boring into his ears, emphasising its existence.

'Do you know they are?' Harry asked the other two, his voice sounding oddly strained in the deathly silence. Hermione shook her head as if the wood had silenced her too and Ron just shrugged. Suddenly around them a wind blew, shaking the boughs of the trees and rustling the leaves, a chill shot down his spine. He looked questioningly at Hermione to ask which way to go, and reading his gaze in the light from the nearby lanterns and the fires from the campsite she twisted her lip in an expression which clearly said: _I don't know, how about this way? _They set off in the direction she indicated and before long came across someone they knew, if not a person they had ever wanted to see.

'Oh, look babes lost in the wood, I hope they don't end up hurting themselves,' drawled Draco Malfoy as he leaned against the trunk of a nearby oak.

'Shove off Malfoy,' growled Ron.

'What and miss all the fun? Is your Daddy out there, I wonder if he'll be coming back? I never got to ask, why was your mother missing from your little party of misfits at the match. Was it that even by selling your home you still couldn't get enough tickets, or perhaps just that her arse was too fat to fit up the stairs?'

'Malfoy,' said Hermione, her voice low and cold as Harry held Ron back, 'I would really advise shutting up. There are three of us, and only one of you here, I don't like your odds. Tell you what though, draw your wand and I'll take you on alone, surely you feel up to taking on a single _mudblood _girl,' her hair rose in a sparking wave around her head as anger poured off her and even Ron seemed to calm. Around them the wind rose and a single flash of lightning split the sky above the wood blue light painting them as silhouettes onto Harry's eyes.

Draco paused for a second, Harry noticed his eyes twitching from left to right as he realised first the truth of Hermione's statement, and that if he accepted her challenge whether or not he won he would probably be little more than a shaking jelly.

'Maybe another time, Granger. You better hope that _they _don't find you, they don't take well to your sort,' Draco spat as he turned away to head off into the woods.

Harry snorted, 'Muggle-borns you mean? Is that why you're hiding in the woods Draco?'

Draco's back froze ridged, but he continued walking, though he called back as he walked, 'What about you Potter? How did you get to the Cup, I was under the impression children had to be accompanied by an adult? I didn't know you had any family left to take you.'

It was only Ron and Hermione's combined efforts that prevented Harry from trying to curse him. Seconds after Draco had disappeared out of sight the storm broke, rain washing down in torrents, pouring of the leaves and running in rivulets down the bark. Harry could hardly see, his glasses washed over by the rain till everything was an indistinct blur. The three each fled to cover, presuming that the others were following, but as Harry wiped his glasses on the worn cuff of his sleeve a hand clamped down on his mouth and a deep, guttural voice with the accent of the deep south of America whispered, 'Stupefy.' A red light filled Harry's vision and he fell into darkness.

* * *

It was not much later that Harry awoke, the raindrops were trickling down his nose, but his hands were bound behind his back, he tried to reach to his pocket to see if his wand was there, but he found nothing. A headache pounded behind his eyes.

'Get up,' the voice that spoke was the one which had stunned him, coarse and filled with phlegm. Harry struggled to his feet, as he looked up a bolt of lightning smashed down igniting a faint golden glow as it hit the wards around the stadium causing a deep, gong like, humming. The lightning shone on the man's face revealing the large, grey bearded man who had threatened Hermione and he earlier in the day when they had been exploring.

'You know when they said they'd cause a distraction I didn't expect it to be so …' the man seemed lost for words as he stared at the lightning bolts crashing into the wards, 'Nevermind though, now before she gets here, I want to know, what do they want you for? What are they after, boy?'

'I don't know, and if I did I swear I wouldn't tell you,' replied Harry, anger rising at the man.

'Ha, no surprise there, don't matter though, I'll still find out,' and with that he pointed his wand at Harry and snarled out a single word, '_legilimens_.'

Thoughts rushed through Harry's mind, thoughts he could not even remember having, thoughts of Hogwarts, thoughts of magic, memories of the Dursleys, thoughts of Cho he remembered and which made him blush, thoughts of Hermione he did not remember which made him cringe internally at the thought she might find out. Nothing seemed to satisfy his captor, Harry shrunk inside himself, concentrating on the anger he felt at his humiliation and capture, anger throbbed red and raw, it filled every corner of his mind. The man flinched as the wave of anger hit him, staggering back a pace and the ropes around Harry's wrists exploded into wisps of frayed smouldering fibre. As his magic ripped the bonds to shreds Harry fell to his knees, dazed by the effort of partially consciously controlling his 'accidental' magic, only the jarring impact as he hit a tree root shook him from his stupor.

A red light shot over his bent head where his stomach had been a moment before and smashed into a nearby tree sending a shower of flaming splinters over him. Harry rolled to the side, splashing down into the mud of the forest floor. The lightning seemed to have disrupted the magic supplying the wards too much for the lights to be maintained, the cries and fires from the campsite had ceased, only from high overhead came a sickly green glow, too little to give useful illumination to the forest floor, indeed apart from the lightning there was no light to give away his position, but shouting might well reveal him. Another spell, a dark, glittering, blue which Harry did not recognise flew past. Harry fumbled around desperately for anything with which to defend himself.

'I'll get you little boy,' panted his attacker, it seemed that Harry's burst of magic had hit him rather harder than expected, his breathing was laboured and heavy.

Harry's hand closed on a branch, he tugged, but it failed to come free. Rain poured down making his hands slick and making them slide over the wet wood. Harry pulled harder, water filling his shoes, but as it came free with a wet slurp of mud he gave a grunt and another hex, pale green this time burst out of the surrounding night, this time on target, it hit his left hand and it exploded in agony as if it had been run over by a lorry, he could feel the bone shifting in tiny shards beneath the skin of his hand.

'Now you're mine,' said the man looming out of the night a grin plastered across his face. The grin remained there until the club of wood, heavy with the rain smacked into the side of his head and sent him careering sideways into a young holly tree. Harry struggled to his feet, his heartbeat loud in his ears, the adrenaline almost drowning out the pain in his hand. He knew he could not defeat a fully grown and trained wizard on his own and without a wand, it ran against every instinct flowing through his blood, but he knew he had to run. Cradling his hand he began to stumble through the trees, slipping on the wet leaves of yesteryear.

He could hear the man's feet pounding along behind him, he heard him slip and crash to the floor, but he kept going, dodging trees only at the last second, their trunks black and wet as if they had been made of paper soaked in ink. A resounding crack sounded, bouncing off the trees and a large, well-built man stepped out of thin air, a second later his fist connected with the face of Harry's pursuer leaving him stumbling back. With his opponent momentarily incapacitated the newcomer drew up his wand and leveling it at the attacker yelled, 'EXPELLIARMUS!' The spell not only sent the assailant's wand flying from his hand, only to be caught with ease by Harry's rescuer but also lifted him bodily off the ground and hurled him deep into the bushes, out of sight. The man who had come to Harry's rescue turned and sheathing his own wand temporarily snapped the attacker's before throwing the broken pieces to the side. Then he reached out his left hand to Harry and pulled him upright.

'Are you alright, lad? I'm Ludo Bagman, and you must be Harry Potter,' Harry paused slightly confused by a sense of deja vu, but pushed it aside to the corner of his mind before shaking Bagman's proffered left hand, half wincing before he realised that his hand no longer hurt, or at least no more than a mild stinging.

'Thank you Mr Bagman, I don't think I've ever been more thankful to see someone. I think I'm alright, but my left hand got hit by some sort of curse or hex, it felt as if everything in it had been shattered, though it feels okay now.'

'Hmm, let's see,' Bagman ran his wand over Harry's hand a faint blue light pulsing from the tip, 'you're fine, it was a mind curse, only made you think you were in pain. Obviously whoever cast that just wanted to incapacitate you without actually harming you, I'm amazed you managed to move at all, that thing is pretty much an Unforgivable.'

'Unforgivable?'

'Dark magic, very dark. We best get moving, Dumbledore's managed to organise everyone and stop the riots, well either he did or the Dark Mark, anyway, now he and the Weasley's are looking for you.' He pulled Harry off through the woods.

'The Dark Mark?'

'Bad, very bad that, the sign of the Dark Lord, _You-Know-Who_', he added in a whisper as they brushed past a series of bushes which dropped water onto them, cooling still further Harry's already soaked clothes.

'Mr Bagman, I've lost my wand, is there anyway to find it?'

'Lost your wand?' Bagman asked, a look of understanding and worry crossing his boyish features, 'Ah, I think we ought to check something, I have a feeling your wand has already been found …'

And then there they were back at the campsite, but it was no longer the resplendent sight Harry remembered, while the tents at the top of the hill were undamaged many of those lower down were torched, blacked husks. The tent made of leaves was only a few floating lumps of chard ash, and about half way up the hill towards the side stood a large group of wizards looking up at a massive green skull through which curled a snake. Only one of the wizards looked at his ease, sitting in a large, comfortable looking armchair Albus Dumbledore was drinking a cup of tea, he looked up as Harry approached and addressed the assembled wizards.

'I think, ladies and gentlemen, that the solution to at least a part of our little problem has arrived.'

* * *

Away across the moor Bodmahl and her coven had ceased the long invocation, and began to let the storm clouds dissipate, healing the bloody wounds which peppered their bodies to power the spell. Swaying unsteadily on their feet many leaned against the stones of the circle which surrounded them.

'Well done, if that mercenary has not achieved his task by now he never will. I will investigate the matter soon,' said Bodmahl, allowing her legs to buckle under her as she waited for the one member of the coven not involved in the actual weaving of the spell to reach her with the potions. The idea that there should be thirteen witches or wizards in a coven is correct, however, the majority of modern practitioners have forgotten that only twelve were ever supposed to actually take part in any spells. Old magic, the magic of covens is ferocious and insatiable there must always be a guard to tend to the wielders of such magic, lest they go too far.

'What do you need, mistress? Pepper-up? Blood-replenishing?' Suggested the small and rather dumpy witch who was carrying a large tray stacked with potions, and Bodmahl realised a large pot of tea along with a plate of biscuits. She could not help but smile, even in the most powerful and darkest of rituals Hetty always seemed to have tea and biscuits with her.

'Both. Thank you Hetty. May I have a biscuit too? No tea, I need to get going soon and you know it never sits well with me if I apparate.' The friendly little witch smiled as she gave out the requested potions and a large ginger biscuit. Downing the potions and taking a bite of the biscuit to drown out the vile taste Bodmahl drew her wand and apparated to the rendezvous point.

The ritual had evidently taken even more out of her than she had thought, her vision swam for a moment before the world righted itself, but even her first glance around with a quick _lumos _was enough to tell her that things hadn't gone well. Scorch marks and the lack of either boy or man told her enough of the story, a stick with a dark substance smeared on its end, evidently a different type of liquid from the mud which lay around worsened her suspicions. Following the heavy, sliding footsteps in the mud was no difficult task and it was not long before she found the mercenary. He lay against a tree where his head had evidently impacted leaving the top of his skull no more than a jelly-like mush. She wondered about leaving the body, but there was no sense in stirring up the proverbial hornet's nest more than necessary, and so she let forth a quick burst of controlled fire incinerating the corpse. Her shoulders sagged as she vanished the ashes, who knew when they would have another chance to awake the Sleepers?

* * *

'Harry,' cried Mr Weasley starting forward from the group of witches and wizards gathered around the burnt out tents, but another man was faster. He was tall with short grey hair with an immaculately precise parting and a moustache so straight it might have been trimmed with a slide rule. His features were lit eerily in the light of the flaming torches which rose from the wands of many of the surrounding wizards to illuminate the area, it made Harry think of the grotesque masks of waxy flesh that Dudley had spent what had seemed like an eternity looking at the one time when they went to a museum as an enforced school trip before Hogwarts.

'Is this your wand?' The man asked ferociously, brandishing a short stick of wood, 'Is it?'

Harry squinted in the low light at the wand which the man was now brandishing in his face, 'Um, yes, at least I think so …'

'Then you admit it! You cast the Dark Mark!'

'Bartemius,' Dumbledore's tones seemed to calm the man momentarily as if recalling him to the present, 'you are talking to Harry Potter. I suggest that you come up with another hypothesis than that young Harry managed to first cast the dark mark, then decided to drop his own wand and vanish only to reappear … where did Harry reappear Ludo?'

'In the woods, Professor, someone was hunting him. I knocked them out, I think, and broke their wand, but I came straight back here once I'd found him, didn't want to risk there being more than one of them.'

'So now it would appear that Harry not only vanished only to reappear in the woods, but also managed to arrange an attempt either upon his life or liberty. In conjunction with the account of Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, which you have already received I suggest you accept that your idea that the owner of the wand, who has now been confirmed as Harry, is not practical. Now if you don't mind I will remove this rather unsightly blemish on our night sky.'

The man called Bartemius looked as if he wanted to protest, but decided not to. As Dumbledore gestured with his wand towards the Dark Mark it drifted apart turning into a few small wisps of silver smoke before vanishing entirely. Turning the grey-haired man called to the ministry wizards, his voice stiff and hard, 'Right, spread out then, comb the area. We must find whoever did this.'

'Sir,' called Harry as the man turned to go, 'May I have my wand back?'

There was an irritable twitch and the wand was tossed towards Harry as the man apparated away. A few moments later there was no-one in sight apart from Mr Weasley, Dumbledore and Bagman, the later of whom excused himself.

'Well Harry, I think you must have had a pretty exhausting night,' said Dumbledore, vanishing the armchair, 'for now I suggest you get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, as long as Arthur here, and your friends do not object I will pop by to take you for a little walk, I believe we must have a chat.'

It did not take long once Harry had reached his bunk and made sure Hermione and Ron knew he was well for him to drift off into a deep sleep. Though it was not untroubled by dreams.


	4. A Grim Morning

**Disclaimer: **If this was mine I wouldn't get sued for saying it was, since this starts with the word disclaimer I think you can figure the truth of the matter out. All here belongs to J.K Rowling

**A/N: **Well, please review. This might be a bit of a slow chapter, not much action and a lot of talking. I'm still trying to figure out how to get the balance right. Have fun and enjoy reading.

**A Grim Morning**

_Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil_.  
Lord Byron

The morning chorus was, in Harry's opinion, highly overrated. Indeed as he opened his eyes a crack and stared at the grey-green of the tent's roof, it was not just overrated, it was approximately as much of a mistake to rate it at all as to give his Uncle Vernon Dursley a prize for the most charming smile of the year. Harry groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, it did not help, like most things in the tent it smelled of cabbage and cats. Resigning himself to the fact that he was not going to be able to get back to sleep Harry swung his legs out of bed. Pulling on trousers and a shirt he stumbled through to the kitchen area rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Spying a loaf of bread baked by Mrs Weasley Harry cut himself a slice and spreading butter before turning to go and sit down. As he reached one of the chairs he caught sight of a copy of the Daily Prophet upon the cover of which reared the Dark Mark which had been floating in the sky the night before. Picking it up Harry sat down to read the article.

_Terror at the Cup_

_By Rita Skeeter._

_Despite the initial reports of the World Cup as a great success it seems that the Ministry's cut backs on the budget for the games allowed for a terror to be released in our midst. I had retired for the night when I heard the first screams from outside my tent. Through the campsites in which so many different nations were camped for the World Cup a host of dark wizards were running unchecked. Before my very eyes I saw muggle-borns, and indeed any citizen brave enough to resist struck down by curses. It was sometime before the Ministry arrived to deliver aid to the victims, and even then they failed to capture as single culprit. Apparently Albus Dumbledore had organised the Ministry forces, one cannot help but feel disturbed by this display of ineptitude on the part of the Ministry that they needed a wizard who while famous is far from the first flowering of his youth to organise them, especially when the said wizard took vital minutes to do so. _

_ Indeed the event which truly seems to have caused the dispersal of these dark wizards was the appearance of the Dark Mark, symbol of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It was with a chill sense of terror that your correspondent saw that symbol of death and chaos which was last seen over thirteen years ago. Many are reporting exposure to curses as dark as the cruciatus, Ministry blunders have caused a national disgrace for our country just as they were insisting it had been a triumph._

_ Understandably many have decided to seek redress from the Ministry for the damage inflicted both upon them and their property which was caused by the lax security. It can only herald dark times ahead when our own Ministry fails so completely to protect its people. Cont. on p.5_

Harry was about to flip through to see whether he could actually find anything out from the account when Hermione flopped down next to him.

'Harry, how are you? I was so worried, and I didn't check that you properly last night, I'm so sorry …'

'Hermione, its okay, I told you last night, I'm fine.'

Hermione bit her lip and for a second Harry thought she was going to cry before she hugged him fiercely, 'I know but you always say that. I think I remember you telling me that in second year when you broke your arm!'

'Look I promise, I'm fine. Bagman said that the only curse which hit me just told me I was in pain, whoever tried to get me didn't want to harm me,' he said stroking the back of her head calmingly in an attempt to reassure her.

'Good, but please take better care of yourself, I can't bear to think that you are in danger.'

'Trust me, being in danger is not on my top ten list of things to do. Hermione, I wanted to ask you something actually …'

Hermione's reversal to her normal posture for giving out information was almost comical and seeing the grin in Harry's eyes as she pushed her hair back away from her face her eyes crinkled up in amusement before returning to the normal serious stare.

'I was just wondering what you could tell me about the Dark Mark, apparently it was cast last night and whoever did it used my wand.'

Hermione paled slightly at the mention of it, but in her best _McGonagall_voice she began, 'The Dark Mark, for which the incantation is supposedly _Morsmorde_, was the device used by the Dark Lord usually known as "You-Know-Who" …'

'Come on Hermione, you can say Voldemort,' interrupted Harry, Hermione gave a little wince but continued.

'V-V oh for heaven's sake, Voldemort,' she said with a struggle, 'in the last great wizarding war. It was predominantly used to signal that he or his followers, the Death Eaters, had committed one murder or more in a location. Rumour has it that the Death Eaters were also branded with this mark, though as it is also said that it was only visible to their lord, one another and any they might will to see it such rumours are largely unsubstantiated. After the defeat of _You-Know-Wh … _Voldemort, it has not been seen again. Except of course for last night,' she added in a lower tone.

'You mean one of those people last night killed someone?' Harry asked, stunned.

'I suppose so, I think all of the ones in black robes were Death Eaters, but it seems a bit odd if they did cast it that all of them fled as soon as it happened.'

'No-one was killed last night, something Rita Skeeter failed to mention. And yes, those were Death Eaters, or old ones at any rate, but I think they were scared off by the Mark because it meant someone who wasn't just seeking a bit of fun was out there, most of them are about as scared as we are of him coming back. _You-Know-Who _wasn't exactly the forgiving type and since they've tried to go back to their normal lives I doubt he'd be that pleased with them,' came Mr Weasley's voice from behind them, making them jump. Harry turned and was surprised to see how tired Mr Weasley looked, his hair stuck up in tufts and the bags beneath his eyes suggested he had not slept all night.

'Mr Weasley, are you alright sir?'

'Just a very long night Harry, nothing to worry about,' he said stretching, 'everything is quiet now. I'm just going to get forty winks, I think Dumbledore said he'd bring you back to the Burrow, so once you've seen him about whatever it is don't come back here, we'll probably be gone.'

Harry and Hermione chatted about this and that for sometime, and when Ron had joined them they finished breakfast and got some more water with which to do the dishes as Mr Weasley and the elder brothers had all gone off again, apparently on more business to help the Ministry.

* * *

It was as they were lazing outside in the late morning sunshine that Dumbledore appeared, walking swiftly towards them through along the campsite path, humming something under his breath which sounded suspiciously like 'How do you solve a problem like Maria?' He was dressed in a long sweeping golden robe, embroidered with flaming phoenixes and long, boots of tan leather.

'Good morning Harry, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley,' said Dumbledore, smiling down at them, 'would you mind terribly if I stole Harry away for a few hours? I am afraid that there are a few questions I wish to ask him about last night and I thought I might walk the dog while we chat.'

'Of course Professor,' answered Ron looking almost as nervous as Hermione to be addressed by the Headmaster, 'just please take good care of him …'

'Ronald,' whispered Hermione, dreading the words that were about to come from Ron's mouth.

'… don't feed him too many treats and please bring him back by nightfall. Like dogfather like son.' Harry groaned inwardly at Ron's attempts at jokes.

'I'm sorry, sir, I think he's been spending too much time around the twins,' apologised Hermione, glaring at Ron.

'Not at all Miss Granger, I have always felt that laughter is the cure for all ills,' replied Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling mildly, 'care for a sherbet lemon?'

Hermione refused but Ron took one and popping it into his mouth discovered that he had turned into a large grizzly bear cub, except for the fact that his fur was still a flaming orange.

'I too, you see Miss Granger, have spent a great deal of time around the Mr Weasleys and they asked me to test one of their products for them. Would you mind telling them it was a grand success, though they may want to work on the fur colour?' Dumbledore's eyes shone with genuine amusement. Leaving Hermione still slightly open mouthed at the Headmaster's willingness to engage in childish jests and Ron struggling to walk on all fours Harry set off with a wave goodbye at his friends to follow Dumbledore across the field.

'Sir, how far is it to your tent?' Harry asked politely as they trudged through the campsite, around them hardly a soul moved.

'Only a couple of miles, but we are not going to my tent. Our canine friend will be meeting us once we are safely under the trees. I would apparate with you to throw others off the scent, but that is unfortunately out of the question.'

'Is it because I haven't got an apparition license yet?'

'Not precisely, it is perfectly legal and possible to side-along apparate if an adult is performing the operation, the problem being that until you are about sixteen the magic is likely to have a detrimental affect upon your growth. It is why, for instance, I did not when you were a baby merely apparate to Godric's Hollow and take you to safety myself by the same means, it would almost certainly have resulted in serious health issues for you.'

'Ah,' answered Harry, there seemed little else to say. They walked what little was left of the path in silence until they were safely under the boughs of the trees and from behind one particularly impressive oak stepped a large, black, hound.

'Wait a moment, my friend, and we shall be safe from detection,' Dumbledore interrupted before the dog could launch itself at Harry. He drew his wand from his sleeve and raising it above his head muttered a series of spells, though Harry could only catch a few words, _occulto_ … _ abdo … tegare._ At last Dumbledore sheathed the wand once more and conjuring three , comfortable, chintz armchairs sat down in one. As he sat he waved a hand at the dog in a gesture which suggested that it was the creature's turn to act.

The air around the dog trembled and its form blurred for a second, flickering as if Harry's sight could not actually register what it was seeing. Then the blurring sank inwards and in place of the dog was a slightly haggard man with long, slightly tangled, black, hair.

'Hello Harry,' said Sirius, a tired smile crossing his face, which had lost a great deal of the waxiness and pallor which it had possessed the last time Harry had seen his godfather at the end of the last school year, though there was still a ting of the unhealthy hue beneath the gently tanned skin. His grey eyes were flashing with unbridled joy.

'Sirius! How are you?' Harry asked as Sirius stepped forth gripping Harry in a quick tight hug.

'Better for seeing you, Harry, though I'll admit I preferred the weather back on those islands. I came back after your letter, and to try and get to see the Quidditch Cup. Though,' he added thoughtfully, 'if I'd known that I'd be right under the nose of that idiot fudge to see him humiliate himself with the Bulgarian minister I would have come World Cup or no. Wish I'd been able to show him who I really was just after the Mr Oblansk revealed he spoke English perfectly.'

Harry snorted with laughter at the thought of Fudge's face had Sirius revealed himself, the combination of that and the Bulgarian Minister would probably have killed him.

However, despite the enjoyment found in the interlude formed by their reunion such pleasantries did not last long. Once they had seated themselves, on the armchairs, which Harry reflected formed an odd contrast to the wet, black wood of the twisted trees above them, damp, dark green, late summer leaves hanging low, all around the smell of damp earth and air refreshed by rain permeated the wood. Dumbledore, his eyes without their usual twinkle asked Harry to relate his memories of the night before. Occasionally Sirius or the Headmaster paused Harry in his narrative to check a detail.

'… and then Mr Bagman arrived, disarmed the man and broke his wand, before helping me find the way back to the campsite,' finished Harry.

'This is a very worrying development, I had presumed that this was an attempt by Voldemort, but now it seems that we have another mysterious opponent, and I cannot think that their aims are to the good,' Dumbledore said, his fingers pressed together in an arch. A drop of water from the trees fell down fizzling into a puff of steam a few inches above his head.

'Voldemort! I didn't realise he was strong enough to manage anything of this sort,' Sirius's exclamation came out in a shocked bark of speech.

Dumbledore nodded gravely, 'I am afraid I think Voldemort is regaining some measure of strength. Severus has shown me his mark, it grows darker with each passing day. Voldemort has too little human left in him to die it seems, but enough to come back to life …'

'Severus,' Sirius spat the name, his dislike of Severus Snape evidently at least as strong as Harry's own, 'are you still sure that we can trust him?'

'Sirius, I know your personal vendetta with him, but lay it aside and look rationally at the situation. Severus has no reason to lie, indeed if he were not opposed to Voldemort it would in fact be in his interests to keep the information secret. Even if this were not the case Alastor Moody informed me he was attacked earlier this summer, though he managed to evade his attackers,' Dumbledore chuckled, 'his mantra of "constant vigilance" seems to have served him well. The Ministry has dismissed this as another instance of Moody's paranoia, Fudge is too interested in maintaining the fiction that the country has no problems, even as men such as Lucius buy power. However, I believe that the attack was a sign of something more sinister, someone wanted to either remove or replace him and had it not been for what you had told me tonight I would have said that both you, Harry, and he were the targets of Lord Voldemort …'

Harry and Sirius looked at Dumbledore in surprise, the tone of concern was clear in his voice, and the candidness with which he spoke was unusual both signs which Harry did not associate with the elderly wizard whose very presence radiated serene calm, mystery and confidence. Dumbledore's words stirred something in Harry's mind though, a memory of his dream from the night before, as he tried to piece it together he heard Sirius speaking in the background.

'Professor, we have to protect Harry, he needs to be able to defend himself if someone tries to kidnap him again,' Sirius' urgent plea was little more than a vague background noise as Harry concentrated on the memory, a high, laugh of joy, a stinging pain in his forehead …

'Sirius, how many times must I ask you to call be Albus. Harry will before the month is out be within Hogwarts, and I shall be very surprised if anyone or anything can reach him there.'

'_Albus_, I managed to get within Hogwarts more than once last year with dementors guarding it! Whoever did this had the means and will to hire a mercenary, they aren't going to be easily put off.'

'Please calm yourself, I can promise that the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor will be more than competent this year.'

'You can't risk him like this. Would it be so hard to get someone to teach him a bit more? Look, I'll do it myself if I have to, I'm more than competent.'

'Sirius, I cannot ensure that you will not be discovered if you come to Hogwarts. However, to ease your concern I will ask the new professor to give Harry extra tuition if he wishes. I would not wish Harry to lose his godfather as well as his parents,' said Dumbledore, pressing his advantage, Sirius sagged, his shoulders slumping in defeat. A twinge of guilt ran through the Headmaster, but he ignored it as a necessary sacrifice in order to protect what portion of Harry's childhood he still could, a doubt running through him as he pondered whether it was the right thing to do.

'Harry, what is your opinion?' Queried Dumbledore.

'That sounds a good idea,' answered Harry, slightly distractedly, his mind only just paying attention, 'Professor, I've just remembered something.'

'What is it, may I ask?'

'Well last night I had another dream about Voldemort …'

'Another dream Harry?'

Harry explained about the dream he had had earlier in the summer about the old muggle who had been murdered and what he had heard of Bertha Jorkin's death and the plan for his own capture.

'Tom did always have a fondness for theatrics,' mused Dumbledore, 'I wonder what he intends. This dream, last night was it of a similar nature?'

'Sort of …' said Harry as he began to retell his dream of the previous night.

* * *

It was cold in the house, the fire was low in the grate and the as the occasional flame ran over the embers it sent shadows dancing over the peeling wallpaper on the walls. Although it seemed that there had at least been a half hearted attempt to make the room most of the dust dispersed from the floor now merely lingered in the air, filling it with floating motes.

From a corner of the room, in a tall, high backed, winged armchair came a ragged, slow, breathing. The light was lowest around the chair, around which was curled a massive, creature its scales too dark to glisten in the firelight. A small, hunched, man entered the room, his back slightly hunched, watery eyes narrowed in the gloom, sniffling slightly from the dust.

'Wormtail, you have returned then? I am pleasantly surprised, was your mission successful?' A high, cold, voice questioned.

'Yes, my lord, I have freed your servant and he has already taken on the role you require of him,' came the servile reply.

'After your first, failed attempt I was inclined to punish you. Lord Voldemort does not tolerate failure, but your idea seems to have succeeded, I can see it in your eyes. Now, I am weak, Nagini has tended me as best she could over the last few days while you have been absent, but she could not do everything, you know what to do.'

Wormtail shuddered slightly, but walking over to a nearby dresser pulled out a vial of a silvery liquid and returning to the chair knelt before it, desperately trying to ignore the gigantic serpent which loomed behind him, its tail still coiled around the chair's legs. Unstopping the vial Wormtail gently poured it into the mouth of whatever lay in the chair, the silvery liquid was incredibly viscous, pouring out with agonising slowness. Beads of sweat beaded on Wormtail's forehead as he knelt, despite the chill air of the room. As the last droplet fell from the mouth of the phial he fell backwards as if desperate to get as far away from the chair as possible. A sigh of something almost akin to pleasure came from the thing from which Wormtail so desperately averted his eyes.

'Coward,' the statement was amused as if the creature in the chair delighted in his servant's fear and repulsion.

'I am not a cowa … I am sorry, lord,' came Wormtail's hurt reply.

'You dare not even try to convince me of your worth. You are pathetic,' Lord Voldemort spat, his words soft, silky and venomous, 'but you have your uses.'

'Thank you my lord you are too kind,' murmured the grovelling Wormtail.

'Silence, I know what runs through your mind, if you could you would kill me now. Do you want to try? I am in but a weak body, my life sustained only by the blood of the unicorns, potions and Nagini, do you not dare to face me even in this state?' The voice was quiet, but filled with contempt and cruelty.

'No my lord, I would never think of harming you,' whined the cowering man.

'Liar! Lord Voldemort knows your mind. But you are mine Wormtail, you sold your soul with the first unicorn you slew and I claim it, only I can take the pain that such a crime causes you from you,' whispered Voldemort, his tone almost gentle, 'now tell me, where is my _faithful _servant now …'

* * *

'… and that is where it ended,' explained Harry. The leaves were no longer dripping, the sun which was now high in the sky had dried out the forest, by and large, and now rays of golden sun were piercing the forest canopy. Silence fell between the three of them.

'Thank you Harry,' Dumbledore, 'what you have told us may prove of great importance. I think that there is one branch of magic that I will attempt to ensure that you have instruction in, given what you have told us. I think that it may help you protect your mind against such visions.'

'I could help Harry with that, if you mean what I think you do, Headmaster …'

'I do mean occlumancy, Sirius, but once again I must observe that there is no secure way for you to stay at the castle and Harry would need regular tuition on a more frequent and longer basis than the trips to Hogsmeade would allow.'

'Occlumancy?' Harry asked somewhat bewildered.

'Harry, I presume you remember last night your attacker cast a spell with the word _ligilimens_?'

'Yes, hard to forget someone rifling through your memories and thoughts,' said Harry, trying to push some of those thoughts out of his head.

'Precisely, now occlumancy would allow you to shield and protect your thoughts and mind from incursions, both of that sort, and I believe of the sort which you are experiencing. It will be hard, maybe too hard, it is not an art which comes naturally to most and those who feel emotions particularly deeply, and teenagers in particularly struggle with it.'

'Don't worry Harry, all you have to do is imitate Crabbe or Goyle,' Sirius jokingly suggested.

'How do you know about Crabbe and Goyle? I mean they're only fourteen.'

'Really? I meant the pair I suppose must be their fathers. Apparently they must have found someone equally dim to marry.'

Dumbledore glanced sternly at them over his half-moon glasses and they quieted swiftly.

'I think Professor Snape would be willing to help you with guarding your mind …'

'No!' Harry and Sirius cried simultaneously, partially rising from their seats.

'I don't want Snape rifling through my thoughts,' Harry continued, 'honestly, I think I'd take the dreams over that.'

'Professor Snape, Harry, I am afraid only he and I are capable of teaching this to you …'

It was Sirius' turn to interrupt, 'Why can't you do it then?'

'I trust Severus implicitly, I am sure he could put aside his bias …' Dumbledore paused seeing the looks on their faces, 'I could teach Harry, though I'm afraid that the tuition may be slightly more haphazard in terms of its regularity.'

'Trust me, Professor, when I say that I'd gladly take a few irregular lessons over letting Snape poke around in my mind,' replied Harry, thinking first of the numerous escapades which Snape would then be able to pin onto him with greater ease, along with the more recently revealed, extremely private thoughts of Cho, and Hermione, thoughts which he suspected Snape would search out in an instant simply to embarrass him, or them.

'Very well, we will sort out the details of the matter when term begins. For now though I think we ought to be off, the Weasley's will be beginning to worry. I shall leave you two alone for a time to say your goodbyes,' and with that Dumbledore stood and vanishing his chair strode off into the woods humming as he went, as if he were on a perfectly normal, uninterrupted ramble through the countryside.

Sirius and Harry sat watching him go until he was out of sight, and then Sirius turned to Harry.

'Listen, I don't know exactly what he is thinking, but I've never seen Dumbledore that worried before. He agreed to you learning magic which most wizards haven't even heard of, and being trained in defence properly. Throughout his time as headmaster the fighting capabilities of his students have steadily declined, I suppose he was trying to make sure that when the next war came the participants wouldn't be able to do much more than try and trip each other to death. Either that or the people mad enough to take on the Defence post have simply gone down in quality and quantity. The point remains he is scared, and from what you've said you should be too, Voldemort is obviously after you, and now it seems someone else probably is too. Take care and watch out! I'll be staying near Hogsmeade, Dumbledore has promised to tell me when the visits are so I'll be there if you need me,' Sirius' face was lined with worry as he spoke, dark grey eyes solemn without the spark of humour which had begun to return in the year after his escape from Azkaban.

'I will take care, but you should too. You don't need to stay in Hogsmeade, it is too close they'll be looking for you, go back to whichever island you were hiding on, it seems to have done you good,' Harry said, his heart sinking at the thought that Sirius would be putting himself in danger on his account.

'I'll be fine, maybe I can even get a house elf to bring me food so I won't have to eat rats again …' Sirius paused seeing Harry's concern, 'look, I promise it will be fine.'

They looked at each other sadly for a moment, both knowing that they would be unable to assuage the other's fears. They talked aimlessly of Harry's life and Sirius' adventures on the run until Dumbledore returned carrying a portkey, and just before Sirius shifted back into a dog he laid his hand on Harry's shoulder.

'You'll be fine Harry, just remember that while we may revel in the storm it is still dangerous,' he said and then with a blur and a shimmer in the air a giant, panting black dog was sitting in his place.

Dumbledore vanished the chairs and held out the portkey, a rather large, water smoothed, mottled stone to Harry who placed his hand on it.

'You know, being Chief Warlock of the Wizangamot really does have its perks. Being able to legally create portkeys admittedly isn't the best, but deciding what type of biscuits are served in session really does make those meetings so much better …' Dumbledore's words were cut off as the portkey sprang to life and with a sharp tug around his navel Harry felt the unpleasant surge of energy he associated with portkey travel again. A few seconds later they were standing in front of the Burrow. Politely declining Mrs Weasley's offer of lunch Dumbledore vanished with a near silent apparition.

After the usual bone crushing hug from Mrs Weasley and a truly splendid meal Harry, was left standing beside Ron, looking out across the fields which surrounded the Burrow. Hermione was talking with Ginny somewhere and so he and Ron decided to go down to the river to help Mr Weasley catch a trout for supper.

**A/N: **I know that the attempt on Moody only takes place after the escape of Barty Crouch Junior, but in this case I decided that Wormtail should have actually been sent to actively free Crouch and so he was free a few nights before the World Cup and the attack could happen earlier. Crouch the Elder believes that his son is still imprisoned under the cloak for the moment, which may be explained later, if it isn't then I'll explain in an authors note. Voldemort may be more willing to gamble on a risk or two in this version. Though they don't acknowledge it here both Voldemort and Wormtail know that if Wormtail tried to flee from him Voldemort would hunt him down and possess him until his body failed.


	5. The Three Who Are One

**Disclaimer:** To own this or not to own this, that is the question. Except since I don't own the characters (excluding a few such as Jonathan Holland and Bodmahl), story etc. I guess I'll have to go with admitting J.K Rowling owns it … for now.

**A/N: **Thank you for your reviews so far. Short chapter, not directly about Harry's actions. There is a massive author's note at the end, sorry, it is just a little bit of explanation about characterisation, and such like. I'd be very grateful if you'd review, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**The Three who are One**

**or**

**A New Neighbour**

_People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales. People imagine, and people believe: and it is that belief, that rock-solid belief, that makes things happen._

American Gods, by Neil Gaiman

The man who called himself Jonathan Holland appeared in front of a small, slightly run down, cottage in the depths of rural Ireland, wincing at the loud crack which accompanied his arrival, the fight with the Garda had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. He had received the report from Bodmahl, the attempt to capture the boy had been a failure. Despite a night's rest he was still not fully recovered. It was particularly irritating given that the people who he was now visiting were not ones who it was a good idea to show weakness to, still he had arrived now and, he reflected, it would be more foolish by far to leave and let them know that he had felt too weak to meet them.

Somehow merely knocking on the door of a run down cottage where what remained of … where these three lived seemed anti-climactic. The blue sky, with only a few white fluffy clouds and the picturesque green valley with its low stone walls which surrounded the house did not help the matter. However, there was little else that he could do and so taking the brass knocker in one hand he beat a sharp tattoo against the door.

'Comin', comin',' came a hoarse voice with a strong Irish accent from inside and after a short delay the door opened a crack letting a smell of unwashed clothes, smoke and possibly rotting meat float out.

'Who is it?' Croaked an old woman peering through the crack.

'Really Ana, I'm hurt,' he said, leaning against the door frame, 'won't you let an old friend in?'

'Oh it's you, what de ya want?'

Nothing much, a talk mainly, and a bit of help,' he conceded as she raised her eyebrows in disbelief, the wrinkled and wart covered skin puckering.

'Who's there, Ana? Won't yeh shut the door?'

'Its the Pale Man. Ah, yeh best come inside, close the door behind yerself.'

Jonathan stepped through the door which the woman had left, slipping through the gap and closing it. There was little light in the low room, onions, garlic, rosemary, thyme, and many other herbs and vegetables hung up drying, in one corner there was a pile of rags and blankets, barely illuminated by the smoky fire.

'What's _he_ come for?' The blankets moved revealing two women, easily as old as the one who had opened the door, lips drew back over toothless gums as one of them spoke, pointing her claw like hand at him.

'I have come to ask about a boy, and to ask for your help.'

'Payment?'

'I have here,' he said scattering a collection silver coins on the table, 'the bodies of eleven men and women slain in battle,' Jonathan glanced around the room before finishing, 'in your present state I think you should be more than willing to accept.'

The women huffed, but did not contradict him. The one who seemed to be their spokesperson, Ana, pondered it for a second, 'The price will include a phial of your blood,' she added wagging a finger in front of him.

'Done,' he said quickly.

'You must think you're close if you accept so fast. Finally, after all these centuries … be a pity if you failed now, again, best keep a check on that anger of yours,' the crone cackled, grinning toothlessly at his discomfort, 'now tell me the boy's name.'

'Harry Potter.'

The women flinched, when Ana spoke the hoarseness of old age was gone, replaced by a soft, smooth voice, 'You ask a great deal, Pale Man.'

'You set the price,' he pointed out mildly.

She snarled, 'We give yeh no help save this, we will not set ourselves against Fate, not in a country other than our own.'

He nodded his assent, he had not expected them to agree, though their reaction was interesting.

'Now give me your blood, I must join with my sisters.' He drew a slim blade from his pocket and drawing it across his skin let it flow into a clear, glass phial which Ana held out for him. Once the vial was filled he tucked the knife away again inside the robes. He held his arm steady for a few seconds and slowly the split flesh sealed, spare droplets of blood rolling backwards into the wound and before the cut vanished into a small, red scar shortly after even that was gone. Jonathan sighed, relaxing, fighting the urge to close his eyes.

The two women in the mound of rotting blankets stood unsteadily, roughly clad in clothes decades out of fashion. The three moved to the centre of the room. Each took a mouthful of the blood from the vial, and then tossing it into a corner they joined hands before beginning to move in a circle. They sidestepped with deliberate slowness, increasing the speed in infinitesimal increments. Eventually they were whirling in a spinning, dance, so fast that it was dizzying to even look at. The colours of their clothes changed, mixing in a blur of light. The inside of the cottage blazed for a second as if it were on fire and then everything stilled.

Jonathan blinked, trying to reassert his vision in the sudden darkness, and then a voice spoke, young, alluring, with a slight echo within it, 'Well, I haven't done that in far too long. Are yeh sure I can't offer you _anything_ else for a bit more of your blood? No, ah well, it was worth a shot.'

Candles lighted themselves in the corners of the room, sparks flying as they burst into flame, leaving the room in a smoky, reddish glow. In the new light it was easy to see the lone woman who stood at the centre of where the dancers had been. She was tall with raven hair and dark eyes, her lips were full and blood red, her pale skin glistened as if slicked with oil or water in the candle light. The clothes which clung to her frame were not the ragged, tattered, ancient dresses the old women had worn, but a silky, black, low cut dress, trimmed in deep red.

'We, are the Morrigan. You may ask three questions,' she stepped close to him, the scent of the wind over moorland, and the wild places hung in the air and she laughed musically as she pushed him, knocking him into a hard, crudely made chair before she sat herself. A chair, curiously carved with strange figures, almost a throne and made from a dark wood materialised beneath her as she sat, crossing one leg over another.

'I want to know how I may capture the boy known as Harry Potter.'

'You cannot take him …' she held up one finger.

'What? Why not?' Panic flushed through him, surely he could not simply be destined to fail, luckily it seemed these questions did not count.

'Let me finish,' she continued soothingly, 'you cannot take him, _unless_ the bloodwards which his mother placed upon him are broken.'

He paused for a second, to ask what the wards were might well waste a question, he thought for a second and then asked, 'How may these wards be broken?'

'They may fade when he turns seventeen, or if the others of his blood, to whom the ward is bound should die,' she raised a second finger, teeth bared in what might be a smile at him as she ran her tongue delicately over them.

He ignored her, it was part of her nature he knew, lust and death, the two sides of her being, or at least while she was reinvigorated, 'Tell me, upon what side of his family are these relatives, mother's or father's?'

'His mother's,' she raised a final finger, before springing to her feet, which she noticed as they touched the floor were bare. A snap of her fingers and soft, black, knee high boots encased her legs.

'Now, my old friend, I have places to see and things to do, there are more ways than one to stay young for a time … ' she said, sweeping up the silver coins which had once been men and women from the table, and with that she was gone, her last words hanging in the air, 'Remember, Pale Man, not even nothing lasts forever, sometimes it is better to surrender to time's curse than to fight it.'

Jonathan sat still on the chair as around him the cottage crumbled, until only the ruin the locals had known for the last hundred years was left, old stones covered by moss and earth. A tree grew next to the pile of rocks which had once been a chimney, its roots worming between the stones, pushing them apart and tearing down what was left of the building.

At last, stretching he stood and with a sigh he vanished from sight, a crack echoing around the rocks littering the empty valley floor. A couple of hikers looked around, wondering where the noise had come from

* * *

'Sometimes, I wonder why I don't take a break for a year or two. Perhaps go and visit a few sights, I hear the Euganean Hills are lovely in the springtime,' he paused, wondering if there was any point in getting up from where he was lying in the golden wheat field, on reflection he decided not, 'bad habit you know, talking to yourself. Probably ought to cut down on it.'

A buzzing filled the air. Jonathan groaned, jerking upright he looked around, a combine harvester was beginning to roll across the field towards him, changing to a highly stereotyped west country accent he addressed himself again, 'Hark at thic, you be out of luck today, Maester Holland.'

It was lucky he reflected, as he apparated again that the British Ministry were so stunningly incompetent when it came to preventing international apparation, then again if they were not their ridiculous blood prejudices would probably have resulted in extinction through inbreeding and stupidity.

* * *

Bodmahl was reading in a pub in York when the PaleMan, though she had heard him introduce himself to many as Jonathan Holland, entered the room. He was dressed in robes, but from the way in which the patron's eyes seemed to pass over him it was obvious he was under a notice-me-not charm. With a quick glance around the room he found her and sitting down at the chair across from her held his head in his hands. His normally well brushed hair was tangled, twigs, pieces of wheat and even moss stuck to it and he seemed to have bruise developing on his cheek. She set down the book.

'Rough day then?'

He nodded.

'Want a drink?'

'Yes, please.'

She stood and going over to the bar where a man dressed in a black shirt and trousers was serving.

'What can I get you?'

'Pint of Newcastle Ale,' she said, laying the money on the counter. Using muggle money and blending in was one of the things you learnt if you wanted to be unnoticed for as long as she had, although she had still to manage the easy grace with which Jonathan did it. Returning to the table she sat down.

'What did you do this time?'

'I tempted fate, thought that the British Aurors would have better things to do than look for one illegal apparation, seems that they beat the odds.'

She sighed, 'Not more dead? we really can't afford to draw attention at the moment.'

He shook his head, before taking a sip of the beer, 'managed to lead them on a chase around the country and lost them, I don't think any died, though I admit jumping off the top of Snowdon wasn't in the plan.'

She raised an eyebrow, but let the comment pass.

'No matter though, I have the information we need. Harry Potter is protected by bloodwards, Fate itself will literally intervene if we try to capture him without getting rid of them, that hireling didn't stand a chance, if he'd managed to kill the man who turned up to stop him, it seems probable that either a tree would have fallen on him, or the entire Goblin nation in a bloodrage would have turned up. I went to the Ministry and …'

'You went to the Ministry, I thought you said you were being chased by aurors?'

He waved her question aside, 'It was just a detour,' she pinched the bridge of her nose, 'anyway, the records say that James Potter married one Lily Evans. After that it was a simple matter of stealing the birth records and marriage records for her sister and I found who we're after: Petunia Dursley, and her son Dudley Dursley.'

'Dudley Dursley? Dear lord, that is one unfortunate child,' she muttered, ignoring whatever he had done to get hold of the records, it was one of the things you learnt after being raised by a quite possibly insane, magical being of indeterminate age, do not worry about how things were done, just accept it.

'Yes, so I have made a plan. A plan which,' he smiled brightly, 'I feel is brilliant.'

'Go on,' she said her tone one of resignation.

'I also found out where they live, so all we have to do is buy the house next door and then you can move in.'

'And?'

'Well then you find out how to ensure that they die, without actually personally physically harming them. The woman should be pretty much invulnerable to magic which has any hostile intent, so I wouldn't try anything on her, but a few spells, as long as they do not cause direct harm should work on the son.'

'Right, I'll see what I can do,' she replied, somehow his plans always left a great deal to be filled in by her. She sometimes wondered how he had managed to do anything before taking her in thirty years ago.

* * *

'Vernon! Vernon! New neighbours are moving in,' Petunia's shriek as she peeped through the net curtains jerked Vernon Dursley awake as he dozed on the sofa. He had been having a delightful dream where that _boy _fell under his freaky school's train and never returned. Term time was the favourite time of the year in the Dursley house, though the present summer, with little more than a passing dose was certainly something which Vernon wished to repeat.

'What do they look like? More bloody foreigners?' He grunted as he tossed the copy of the Daily Mail which had been lying across his stomach aside before heaving himself up and peering over his wife's head. It seemed, as far as he could tell that whoever she was, the new neighbour at Number Six, was not, to his joy a foreigner. Though from what he could tell she did not look at all the type of person to behave in the way he expected women to. She was tall and broad shouldered, joining in the carrying of boxes into the house with as much ease as any of the burly removal men who were delivering her belongings, laughing and joking with them as she did so. Not at all the proper housewife, indeed he could not see any sign of a husband or children at all.

'Harrumph,' he snorted, before sitting back down, eating one of the biscuits Petunia had placed on a plate beside him, as the sofa groaned under his weight.

It was only a few hours later when a knock came at the door of Number Four Privet Drive. Petunia, who had been attentively watching the newcomer's movements rushed to the door. From the sitting-room Vernon heard the sound of voices.

'I just popped round to say hello, and borrow the proverbial cup of sugar, I was intending to make a cake and invite everyone round to have some, but I seem to have lost mine in the move …'

'Of course, do come in, I'll get you some right away,' Petunia's shrill tones were layered in enough sugar in Bodmahl's opinion to fill several cups over, but there was something in the way that she said it that made Bodmahl wonder if the woman was not desperate for company. Still she had a job to do.

'I was just wondering who to go to, and your lawn was so neat, and your car so beautifully kept that I just knew you would be the sort of person organised enough to have everything just to hand,' flattered Bodmahl, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. From where he sat in the sitting-room Vernon swelled with pride, and getting to his feet he crossed to the kitchen.

'Ah, so you noticed the car did you?' He asked, 'I'm Vernon Dursley by the way, this is my wife, Petunia. My son Dudley is out with his friends …'

'It's so sweet,' simpered Petunia, 'he's so popular.'

Bodmahl introduced herself, her name slipping through without leaving an impression beyond being known in the Dursley's minds, by the time they realised they did not know it it seemed impolite to ask.

'Yes, the car is brand new, cost about fifty thousand,' gloated Mr Dursley, putting his thick arm around his wife's shoulders possessively.

Bodmahl bit her tongue to repress the shudder of disgust that had passed through her and carried on talking to the pair of them. It became more and more apparent that Petunia was entirely, and not particularly happily under Vernon's thumb, living for the most part through her love of Dudley (Bodmahl felt like throwing up every time she heard the name), and an obsession with gossip, she suspected it was the reason that Petunia seemed so interested in was eventually agreed that she should come to supper a few nights from then, the fact that she had revealed that she had enough money not to work in the slightest had apparently raised Mr Dursley's opinion of her by miles. Among the things she noticed as she sat in the scrupulously clean sitting-room listening to Vernon's tedious and offensive jokes with a polite smile on her face was that there was not a single clue as to the existence of any boy other than the large, blond, human Michelin man that Petunia adoringly referred to as Dudley. It had taken Bodmahl while staring at the photograph she was shone to work out what was an eye and what merely a fold of skin.

It was with great difficulty that she suppressed the spring in her step as she recrossed the street to her new, depressingly, normal, house.

Back in Number Four Vernon and Petunia discussed her, criticising very few aspects of their new neighbour (beyond her appearance, which it was obvious, Petunia decided, was responsible for her lack of a spouse). The few things they could criticise gave them, as per usual, a comforting sense of superiority.

* * *

Dumbledore sat behind the high desk in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts. With a tired sigh he removed his glasses, placing them carefully upon his desk. Fawkes hopped down from his perch and nudging his head against his friend gave a soft, musical trill of comfort.

'Thank you, my old friend,' murmured Dumbledore, gently stroking the bird behind the feathery crest at the top of his head.

Had he done the right thing in giving way to Sirius and Harry? It had certainly been the easy thing to do, to grant some ground, ground he could control without much difficulty, that was simple. Yet, he could not be sure that he should not have given more ground. True, Harry deserved a childhood, but at the rate he was going it was beginning to seem unlikely he would see adulthood, unless that is he were given the training to protect himself.

It_ felt_ unfair, he reflected, to leave Harry unprepared to face Voldemort, when with his knowledge of both the prophecy and Tom's character it was certain that Harry would be hunted down. Which of course brought up the issue of what Tom's plan was, if as Harry reported he had begun to rebuild his strength. If only Harry could have been more specific in his information, but the memory of the dream had, unfortunately, been hazy to begin with. That Voldemort had killed an old muggle, while terrible was not highly useful, that he was planning something within the next few months was frustratingly worrying and useless. That it had been thirteen years, a highly significant number in black magic, since Harry had defeated Voldemort was There was something Dumbledore was missing, he knew it …

Then there was the question of what to do with Sirius, Dumbledore knew that he would not be content to sit by with Harry in danger, but if he put himself in the way of danger and Harry lost him it could well break the boy. With the Triwizard Tournament already arranged for this year Dumbledore could not help but feel a wave of dread as to what might occur, Harry had a habit of getting caught up in things whatever precautions might be taken and with Sirius already on tenterhooks it did not seem unreasonable to expect something to snap.

He sighed, it was really time to ask Minerva and Severus for a talk. He would need them to do all they could to keep an eye out.

**A/N:** I'm sorry I couldn't resist suggesting that Harry had given them all the information in the dream which originally began the Goblet of Fire. However, since he didn't know about Bertha Jorkins in the book he obviously didn't either remember it all, or see it all. So, I'm afraid all I've left Dumbledore with is worries and half-formed ideas.

Dumbledore himself is, in this story, a good man, not blind to the dangers, or willfully stupid, but perhaps overly hopeful that he can, with care, protect Harry for a little bit longer. He has become too fond of him, caring for him like a grandson and as such perhaps a little bit deceived by his hopes.

If you feel that the interchangeable use of Tom and Voldemort by Dumbledore is confusing tell me and if enough people agree I'll keep to just Voldemort. I felt that Dumbledore, having seen both sides of him, and with his desire to see the best in people, would struggle to decide on how to think of him, the charming, if sinister young man, or the dark lord he was to become.

An irony that I noted in the last chapter is that while I am uncomfortable writing dialogue, as yet I have not managed to establish in my own my the verbal quirks that mark the characters out, I seem to write a great deal of it, while both saying very little, and struggling to give Ron anything at all to say. Sorry for all of that.


	6. Time Passes Slowly for the Damned

**Disclaimer: **Wow, things are … just the same as always, Harry Potter is not mine … I'm giving up with anything approaching a sensible disclaimer after this. Just know that I don't own Harry Potter and that apart form original characters this stuff is J.K. Rowling's.

**A/N: **Enjoy reading. In someways you might be fine just skipping to the last two sections of this chapter, though I promise the story does get better after this chapter. Though that sounds as if this is terrible, hopefully it isn't ...

**Time Passes Slowly for the Damned**

_If time flies when you're having fun, it hits the afterburners when you don't think you're having enough._

Jef Mallett

The last few days at the Burrow were not among the best Harry had spent there. For one reason or another almost everyone was out of sorts. Mr Weasley had been forced to cancel his holiday, putting even more pressure on the already flustered Mrs Weasley, and leaving him tired, exhausted and irritated with the continuing publication of venomous articles by Rita Skeeter. Worst of all Skeeter had dug up the information that Bertha Jorkins was missing and no-one had actually gone to look for her, enabling another vitriolic rant against the incompetence of the Ministry.

When Harry had told Ron and Hermione about his scar hurting and dreams they had reacted in exactly the way he had expected. Ron had been shocked, eventually demanded that he stop saying_You-Know-Who's _name and offered no help whatsoever, beyond offering a game of quidditch when Harry mentioned that he'd talked it over with Dumbledore and Sirius, an offer which Harry gladly took up. However, this had the effect of annoying Hermione in turn who had tried to be helpful and emotionally supportive to Harry, and felt her attempts to help had been rejected.

Ginny was glaring daggers at almost anyone who tried to talk to her, from what he could tell it seemed she had been trying to allow Mrs Weasley to let her go over and visit the Lovegoods, but unfortunately Mrs Weasley was still too worried after the World Cup fiasco to allow it.

Hermione's bubbling anger with Harry had spilled over onto Percy when he mentioned, the Mr Crouch was not doing too well at the moment because he had had to fire his house-elf for negligence a few days before the World Cup. When Hermione inquired into what exactly a house-elf was from someone other than Harry with his rather biased experience in the form of Dobby it would have been an understatement to say she was a little bit annoyed. Her continued lectures on the immorality of slave labour did not sit well with the majority of the Weasley's who, despite their kind nature, had been brought up to accept that this was for house-elves the natural state of things. It did have the benefit of resolving the tension between Harry and Hermione, but while Harry agreed with her it became harder and harder to sit through long speeches explaining why she was right, when he already accepted her point of view.

Even Fred and George, normally the life and soul of things were throwing black looks around. Though this seemed to lighten a couple of days before the end of the holiday after which point Harry saw very little of them as they had confined themselves to their room. Mrs Weasley kept making sudden searches of the pair and tidying their room at odd intervals, presumably incase they had attempted to restart the _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_idea again. Harry noticed the odd order form being burnt on the fire, but he suspected that these were plants by the twins to keep their mother reassured that she had managed to thwart them.

Ron, thankfully, managed to keep in good spirits for most of the time, until the night before the beginning of term when Mrs Weasley brought Harry and he the dress robes which she had purchased for them. The ancient, moth eaten, lacy, maroon robes which Ron held up at, arm's distance, in disgust (particularly when he discovered they smelt far too like sweaty gnomes) were the source of a bitter quarrel between him and his mother as her patience, strained by the last few days snapped. His caustic question as she left as to why all his stuff was 'bloody rubbish' and second hand, was Harry believed, probably the reason he had heard Mrs Weasley crying downstairs not long after. Ron himself cheered up, slightly ironically, shortly after stubbing his toe on the bedstead in a fit of rage, but all in all matters in the Weasley household were uncharacteristically gloomy.

* * *

_September the First_

By the time Harry awoke on the morning of September the First he was thoroughly glad to be heading back to Hogwarts. The slight rise in his spirits undimmed by the thick, grey, cloud and beating rain. Mr Weasley had been called early to help deal with Mad-Eye-Moody who had apparently reported yet another attack upon his person, and so it was left to Mrs Weasley to get everyone to the station. Without the possibility of Ministry cars she dilly-dallied between the options of the floo and muggle taxi drivers. Harry was thankful when she opted for the floo, expensive as it might be it seemed infinitely preferable to trying to fit a collection of owls, broomsticks and large trunks into a set of muggle cars, and Harry suspected that taking several taxis from Devon to King's Cross would not be much cheaper than taking the floo, if at all.

Harry tumbled out of the floo, sprawling on the floor of the waiting room of Platform 9 and 3/4s, it was only his fast reactions which allowed him to roll out of the way before Hermione stumbled through, managing to trip over her trunk which had spun out of her hands just as she landed. It seemed, thought Harry, that the art of arriving gracefully from a floo either had to be picked up at an early age, or was so obvious once you had been told once that pureblood families simply forgot to tell muggle-borns. After picking himself up and offering Hermione a hand, which she refused on the grounds of being perfectly capable, as the Weasleys, Bill and Charlie among them arrived through the floo, they all set off for the platform. Before them, shining in the rain was the crimson engine of the Hogwarts express.

'Now, dears, take care this year. I'm sure you're going to have a more exciting time than you expect … but I mustn't say too much on that. Still take care, I'm glad they've changed the rules, but even so …' Mrs Weasley, her anger and stress from the night before forgotten as she said goodbye to her children rambled on in a kindly fashion.

'I don't know, I'd have liked a shot at it if they'd put it on in my time,' said Bill, grinning slightly at the looks of confusion on the younger children's faces. 'Makes me wish I was back there. What about you Charlie?'

'Absolutely, though I suspect they'll be seeing us around anyway.'

'True, but we better not let too much out, they'll probably be hearing about it from Dumbledore this evening anyway …'

'What areyou two, bloody, talking about?' Demanded Ron.

'Language Ron,' said his mother as she handed out the traditional corned beef sandwiches. Harry took his gingerly, it was always one of the strange things about Mrs Weasley that while she was an incredible cook while at home when it came to the lunch for the trip to Hogwarts virtually anyone could have thought of something slightly less repellent. Perhaps it was an attempt to get her children to really appreciate the feast, or maybe she simply had a bizarre fixation with the processed meat.

'Now you two,' Mrs Weasley fixed the twins with a firm glare, 'I don't want to hear anymore of this ridiculous _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_ business, is that understood?'

'We promise mother, you won't hear a word about _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes _from us,' the twins replied in concert.

'From _anyone_,' Mrs Weasley said in a way that brooked no argument. The twins nodded solemnly, Harry suspected that they had still played with the wording of their promise.

Rain pelted down beyond the shelter of the station awning, hitting the ground hard and exploding into a myriad of droplets which bounced back up. The sky looked as if it were made of lead. Mrs Weasley hugged them each in turn as she said goodbye.

'Now all you on the train, be good. Take care.'

Heaving their bags onto the train they waved back to Mrs Weasley, Charlie and Bill as the train began to slowly set off on the long journey north.

Once they were out of the station Harry turned round to the others, George and Fred had already set off to find their friend Lee Jordan, 'Shall we go look for seats?'

'No Harry, personally I'd prefer to sit on my trunk the entire way there,' answered Ron, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he picked up his trunk, and began to move down the train after Harry. It did not take long to discover that almost all the seats on the train had been taken by one group of people or another.

'Train's full this year,' remarked Ron, as they passed through yet another coach.

'Well there were probably more witches and wizards born eleven years ago, have you noticed how many first years there are?' Asked Ginny.

'Why would there be more people having children?' Came Ron's bewildered response.

Ginny sighed, 'Honestly Ron, think about it. Eleven years ago people had really begun to believe that they were safe, _You-Know-Who_ had been gone for a few years and the last of his active followers had been rounded up. They felt that they're children would have a better chance of growing up with their parents, and they were happier, happy people are more likely to …'

'Yeah, you can stop there, I don't need a lecture on the birds and the bees from my little sister,' said Ron hurriedly, 'found one, there's only Luna in here.'

'Loony you mean,' said a passing Ravenclaw Harry thought he recognised as Marietta Edgecombe, a friend of Cho's.

'Sorry?' Harry, slightly taken aback by the comment from a passing stranger.

'We all call her Loony, that girl has got about as many marbles as the people locked up in St Mungo's permanent spell damage ward. God knows how she got into Ravenclaw, because I don't,' and with that she passed on down the hallway. Shrugging Harry pushed open the compartment door, it wasn't he thought as if they had many options as to where to go. Luna was sitting curled up reading a copy of _The Quibbler_ slowly moving her head back and forward as if she were reading herself to jump into the magazine. As the door swung open she looked up, grey eyes silvery with reflected clouds.

'Oh, hello again,' she said calmly, he eyes flickering over Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny as they struggled into the compartment, slinging their trunks on the shelf by the window, 'Nice to see you Ginny.'

'Enjoying your magazine?' Asked Ron, surprisingly politely, Luna nodded absently, 'Anything good in there?'

Before Luna could reply Hermione gave a little cough, somewhere between exasperation and amusement, 'Come on Ronald, do you really have to ask?'

'Is something the matter?' Asked Luna, her voice lilting slightly as she stared at Hermione unblinkingly.

'Nothing in particular, I just thought Ron should probably have known by now that _The Quibbler's _absolute tosh.'

Luna's jaw stiffened, cheekbones protruding slightly from her thin face, before she answered, the vagueness completely absent, 'My father is the editor, I would thank you to retract that statement.'

Hermione turned slightly pink, but refused to back down, 'I'm sorry, but really, it keeps talking about imaginary creatures. One of the copies I had a look at was going on about blabbernewts! There isn't a single mention of them in any of the bestiaries that I've read, they simply don't exist.'

'Hermione, isn't it? Let me ask you a question, when you were ten, did you think that magic was real? Did your muggle books say that people could do _real _magic?'

'Well no, but that isn't the point …'

'Then why, do you presume that wizard's books have to be infallible. At least consider the possibility that you are wrong, do not deny simply because you haven't managed to find a book to tell you it is true. Once upon a time those books did not exist.'

'That doesn't mean that you are right, so far, there doesn't seem to be any more evidence of your _blabbernewts_ than of Bigfoot. Anyway with an argument like that you might as well believe in everything because you won't be able to definitely prove that something doesn't exist.'

'Hermione, I hate to interupt, but Bigfoot is real … or rather they are real, they're a breed of yeti, one of the American species,' interrupted Ginny quietly, the statement, though it was inconsequential to the basis of the argument was enough to make Hermione pause momentarily.

'That still doesn't ...'

The brief pause was enough for Ginny to take the opportunity to end the discussion and move over to sit beside Luna, before beginning to talk to her in low tones. Meanwhile, Harry, after glancing at Ron who had evidently found the sight of Hermione being told something she did not know amusing suggested that the three of them should play a muggle card game, Harry had found in one of the few books at the Dursley's, called Gops. It was a fun game, though Ron seem did not fully grasp why playing a game where the cards were not supposed to blow up was fun. From what Harry could tell the weather was getting worse and worse as they went further North. Around them the landscape changed from fields and woods to rocky hills and dark forests.

* * *

The train clattered towards Hogwarts, the sky was a swirling mix of purple of black, occasional flashes of lighting illuminated the evening sky as they struck the hilltops, crashing down among the broken stones which littered them. Harry had fallen asleep temporarily, waking only to find his head on Hermione's shoulder. Ron was curled at the other end of the seat Ginny and Luna too had drifted off on their seat, slightly apart. _You know Harry_, he thought, _you really have to stop falling asleep on Hermione, eh and you shouldn't think things which could be taken the wrong way if said out loud …_

'You're awake again then,' Hermione whispered.

'Yeah, sorry for ending up on your shoulder like that,' Harry said sheepishly, putting his hands above his head and arching his back till it clicked.

'Don't worry, you look very sweet when your sleeping. Well except for when you're screaming, but then again you weren't doing that this time. Anyway, you are a nice warm blanket.'

There was a sound of footsteps outside and the others woke up as the door opened to reveal Draco Malfoy and his goons, Crabbe and Goyle. Honestly, Harry thought, if possible they seemed to look dimmer every year, it would have been an insult to gorillas to compare the two, although it might be an accurate comparison, if the gorrillas in question had their brains removed.

'My word, we really have got a full collection of outcasts here, maybe they should make a club, loonies, bloodtraitors, mudbloods and morons,' Draco drawled, 'the last is you Potter, in case you couldn't work it out,' he added as an aside.

'Don't judge everyone by your own standards, Malfoy,' Hermione answered, turning to look out of the window rather than bother looking at him.

'I wouldn't worry Granger, I certainly won't judge _you _by my standards, I'd worry that I might be contaminated,' Draco responded, a sneer curling his lip.

'Look, Malfoy, I won't deny I enjoy your visits, any opportunity to insult you is fun, but really couldn't you take a year off? I mean do you really need attention that much, or is it that you actually think people jinxing you is a sign of friendship? Is that what they do to you in Slytherin? Because that doesn't mean they like you, Drakey,' Ron spoke slowly as if explaining something to a small child, finishing on a passable impression of Pansy Parkinson. Harry stifled a laugh, but Luna seemed not to care laughing almost worryingly hard until she actually fell to the floor, beating it with her fists. Malfoy took a step back from her as if behaviour might be infectious, before turning his attention back to Ron.

'What are you laughing about Weasley, I hear your father's scrambling for his job. The Minister is looking for scapegoats after the World Cup disaster, and as I hear it your father made matters worse by talking to Skeeter. Maybe I should talk to my father I'm sure he'd be glad to suggest to Fudge that the best way to smooth the whole business over is to make a head or two roll, as it were …'

'Shove off.'

'Elegant, Weasley, elegant …'

Shortly after he was gone and the compartment door swung closed behind him leaving Harry to consider how best he could go about falling asleep on Hermione again without getting into trouble.

* * *

_Hogsmeade_

Stepping out of the train Harry flinched as the rain hit his face, it was cold and felt like icy whips.

'Yuck, this is horrible,' shouted Hermione over the sound of the storm, shaking her head, her bushy hair already soaked. Harry nodded, grimacing as the wind rushing along the platform blew a wave of spray into their faces. He began to walk along the platform, his shoes splashing in the puddles, correction, puddle which covered it. At last he, Hermione and Ron got to the coaches, Luna and Ginny had slipped away to join some of their own year. Shuddering as they hopped into the horseless carriage Ron sat down with a squelch, water leaking from his robes.

'I really hate Malfoy, I swear that bastard's going to get his due some day,' Ron muttered as he wiped the water from his face. Harry and Hermione just nodded, enjoying the sensation of being inside and not feeling that they were in danger of drowning while in the open air.

The carriage started to roll up the long, winding hill towards the castle whose lights Harry could see as he looked out of the window.

'I pity the first years going over the lake,' said Hermione as she leaned back against the black wood headboard.

Harry realised something that had been niggling at him since the day after the World Cup. Hesitantly, unsure how Ron and Hermione would react given their recent bad tempers Harry began to explain that Dumbledore had agreed that he should be given extra tuition in how to defend himself. The result was somewhat mixed, Hermione, predictably was glad that he would be safer, but simultaneously found it hard to hide her concern that it would mean that he would gain knowledge that she was not going to be allowed access to. Ron, was silent for a few minutes after Harry had finished his explanation.

'So, while you're going to get all your special training are you going to have time to speak to your old, not so favoured friends?'

'Don't be a prat Ron, I doubt it will take up that much time. It didn't sound as if Dumbledore was too keen on me getting that much extra help, he even suggested Snape being the one to teach me some of it!'

'Yeah, well if you could bother to tell us next time I suppose I wouldn't mind as much. Were you wondering if you could just not tell us so you could show how much better you are than we ordinary mortals?'

'Look, I just forgot, it isn't a big deal, and I'll tell you both anything I learn. What's the matter?' Hermione looked somewhat mollified at this news, the prospect of being able to learn something new brightening her mood considerably.

Ron took a deep breath, he knew that he was being unreasonable, but things just seemed to pile up in Harry's favour, money, quidditch, the fact that his stuff was not a bunch of broken rubbish, and now Dumbledore was giving him private lessons. With an effort he pulled his mind away from such thoughts.

'Sorry mate. I don't know, I just don't want you slipping out of our lives, growing a big, white beard and becoming Headmaster of Hogwarts before we know it,' Ron said, trying to lighten the mood.

As the carriages came to a halt they found themselves, much to their chagrin, next to Malfoy again. Harry groaned internally, talking to Malfoy had about as much cathartic value as being repeatedly stabbed.

'So, Weasley, I meant to ask, are you going to enter? You could do with the money, probably more than you could dream of. Not bad for your reputation, either, it might just pull you out of the pile of dragon-dung which you call family. Hey I'll even put in a word for your entry, I'd love to see you fluff up time and again, I'd almost pay the prize money for it myself.'

'What are you talking about now?' Asked Ron, his ears predictably turning red.

'You don't know? Really? That's priceless! Your father and brother didn't tell you, I suppose they were too inferior for anyone to bother to let them know, either that or maybe they thing you aren't worth telling …' Malfoy smiled seeing that he had hit a nerve, he was just opening his mouth to speak again when the doors of the castle swung open and Harry and Hermione dragged Ron along with the press of students, desperate to get inside and dry.

* * *

_The End of the Feast_

As the feast ended and the plates vanished Dumbledore stood once more.

'There are a few announcements to make before we go to bed, which I am sure we are all looking forward to. Firstly, it is my great pleasure to introduce our new History of Magic teacher, Professor T. Morgan who has kindly consented to fill the role after Professor Binns, finally, passed on this summer,' there was a resounding round of applause from the students and most of the teachers as the striking woman Harry had noticed earlier inclined her head in thanks, 'since our Defen …'

An air splitting boom shook the hall as a vast bolt of lighting cracked across the enchanted sky just above their heads. The great doors to the hall slammed open and a man with a staff clutched in one hand entered the room dressed, not in robes, but a long cloak, reminiscent of the dusters worn in Western films. As he walked up the hall every other step was met with a deep, clunk. His face was a patchwork of scars as if he had been sewn back together, and even then not very well; part of his nose was missing, and his eyes were mismatched, one small, dark and beady, the other large and a bright, electric, blue, the second darted around swivelling in all directions as he marched up the centre of the hall. Reaching the dais he said a few quiet words to Dumbledore and sat in the last empty seat. Dumbledore, apparently unperturbed by the man's appearance continued where he had left off.

'I would like to welcome our new professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Alastor Moody,' this time the clapping was more uncertain, most knew the rather chequered record of Defence Professors, and others knew of Moody's reputation, being known as completely barking mad and paranoid is not a good start as a teacher. It was a wonder that Dumbledore had managed to get away with being, at least somewhat, barmy for as long as he had.

'Now, onto the final announcement,' the candles flickered low as if appreciating the majestic and mysterious atmosphere suitable for the pronouncement Dumblefore was about to make, 'for the first time in over two hundred years the Triwizard Tournament will be held. It is an ancient tradition, dating back seven hundred years. The Tournament will take place here at Hogwarts. The tasks will be dangerous, even deadly, but to the winner will go riches and a fame to ring down the years. The other schools which are participating are Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Their representatives will being arriving in October, and I ask you to treat them, not as rivals, but as friends. The bonds you make this year may be ones which last the rest of your lives.

'More will be announced when they arrive, but I must inform you that firstly, as a result of this no quidditch matches will take place this year,' a groan, which Harry shared in, rumbled through the hall, 'and, more importantly no student under the age of seventeen will be allowed to compete. The Ministry has introduced new safety measures of which this is one, in an attempt to avoid disasters such as the Last Tournament in 1792 where all three champions died in the first task. For now though, I am sure you all wish to rest, and so if the prefects would lead the first years to the common rooms I shall say goodnight.'

It was only as Harry left the hall that he realised that Dumbledore's characteristic twinkle was missing, for the first time that Harry could remember Dumbledore actually seemed tired.

* * *

_Earlier that Evening_

Bodmahl was bored, very bored, extremely bored, bored enough to wonder if anyone would notice if she started driving iron nails through her hands in order to remain awake. She was entertaining, if the word could be used in the same sentence as her guests, Vernon, Petunia and Dudley Dursley as well a selection of others from the district.

Mr and Mrs Firmin sat on one side of the Dursleys. The Firmins reminded Bodmahl most of a pair of corpses who had been under the earth long enough to go from bloated to sunken in appearance and whose skin had taken on a peculiar, yellowish tint. The impression was not dispelled by Mr Firmin's style of speech, which inevitably began with a hefty coughing as if he were trying to expel grave dirt.

On the other side of the table were a young couple, the Mallorys, they had, to Petunia's dismay been revealed to be thoroughly respectable. Bodmahl had been dismayed by them for a rather different reason, the man in particular was one of the most dull people she had ever had the misfortune to meet. His hair had already greyed and for one reason or another it seemed that his skin, despite its real colour, managed to project a similar colour. He spoke in a monotone, and for some reason found the most banal of remarks amusing, when she had mentioned that she had moved in only recently he had let out a sound which most resembled the noise of a car tyre being stretched repeatedly. Mrs Mallory was equally, maddeningly dull, she spoke at barely more than a whisper, constantly repeating the same anecdotes about how much she had been suffering from one ailment or another in the recent (or not so recent) past.

'… and that was when I said to him, I said "well why haven't you plugged it in?", do you know what he said? He said "I have!"' Mr Mallory's voice rose marginally with what appeared an effort as he finished his joke, even Petunia and Vernon struggled to produce a small struggle.

Bodmahl wondered whether it was worth risking her cover in an attempt to poison the whole lot of them, but eventually decided that even such an attempt merely with the intention of ridding the world of such mind numbingly dull people was probably likely to fail, she had already illicitated the information from Petunia that she had suffered from any ailment beyond the occasional bruise in the last thirteen years. If the attempt had failed it seemed likely that the magic protecting the woman would destroy Bodmahl.

Plastering a smile on her face she gathered up the dishes and hurried to the kitchen eager for any relief, it had been the third dinner party since she had moved in. The Mallory's had offered to host the next one, it was enough to make her cry. Petunia came through after her, by the look on her face the woman was suffering almost as much as she was, Petunia had evidently grabbed the pepper grinder and mustard in order to have a reason to escape.

'I thought I might offer my help,' she suggested.

Bodmahl took pity on her and nodded, there was no reason to torture the woman, at least not unless it killed her, and by now Bodmahl was sure that boredom was not an effective method of murder. Had it been the Mallorys in particular would have been among the highest paid hitmen in the world.

'You really care about Dudley don't you?' She asked Petunia as the woman began passing her plates from the spotless, pine, kitchen table.

Petunia's face softened, 'Yes, I don't know what I'd do without him. I'm so scared of when he goes away to university, I know it's years away, but still, I keep imagining that something might happen to him … if it did I'd be all alone.'

Bodmahl felt a twinge of guilt for the plan she was formulating, still she brushed it aside. It would be months before the plan was ready to put into action, perhaps her adopted father would find another way. The boy and the father she cared little about. Indeed she reflected as they went back to the dining room, carrying with them the pudding, considering the suspicious dark bruises which she had seen on Petunia's arm when she rolled up her sleeves to help set the dishwasher ridding the world of Vernon Dursley might well be a service.

* * *

**A/N: **You will of course note that this chapter is once again very close to the book. The thing is that there honestly have not been enough events so far to really alter the course of things, as the ripples of some actions spreads I promise that things really will begin to bring about Hell on Earth.

I do have a reason to characterise Vernon as abusive in this story. In the actual books I do not think that he would abuse Petunia, but there have to be reasons for what happens. To be honest I'm actually rather guilty about what is going to happen to Petunia myself.


	7. Always Expect the Unexpected

**Disclaimer: **_They went to sea in a sieve, in a sieve they went to sea._ And that wasn't mine either.

**A/N: **Thank you for the reviews, I have tried to shorten the train section, as well as making the prologue rather less busy. I am very grateful for reviews which point out problems of that sort. If anyone would like to volunteer to beta for me ...

I recognise that there are several faults with this story. Personally I feel one of the main ones is that I'm struggling to get away from canon, and currently failing. If someone could give me a hint ... as it I fear it will be about chapter nine where things really begin to break away.

**Always Expect the Unexpected**

_The chief object of education is not to learn things but to unlearn things._

G.K. Chesterton

Like the majority of the school Harry eagerly anticipated the Defence Against the Dark Arts (DADA) class, the rumours of just how good Moody was did nothing to assuage his curiosity. As the post owls swooped into the great hall a snowy owl fluttered down from the mass towards Harry, she did not look happy. With a rasping bark she landed on his shoulder and leaning forward pecked his ear with her beak, hard enough to draw blood as she dug her claws into his shoulder.

'Hi, Hedwig,' Harry gasped as the owl glared at him, 'yes I'm sorry that you went such a long way only to find out that there wasn't any point, but I really can't help that can I? I didn't know. Look I'll make it up to you, have this piece of bacon,' he said holding up one of the rashers he had only just saved from Ron.

Hedwig lessened her grip slightly as she ate the rasher of bacon. Hermione who was reading a copy of the Daily Prophet across the table hissed with rage.

'What is it?' Asked Harry.

'Just listen to this, I don't mind the bit about the Ministry so much, your Dad excluded Ron, but really …' she began to read out the article.

_A Triwizard Tournament or an International Fiasco?_

_By Rita Skeeter_

_It was recently released to the press that this year the Triwizard Tournament would be restarted after its hiatus of two hundred years. The Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports Ludo Bagman, one time star beater for the Wimbourne Wasps, assured reporters that measures had been taken to prevent it becoming the bloodbath which it was in earlier times, while simultaneously insisting that the tasks would be more challenging than a mere contest of pure power._

_'There will,' he said, 'be more than a small element of skill, intelligence and courage involved, but I can promise that no deaths will occur.'_

_However, Mr Bagman's assurances are perhaps worth slightly less than we might hope, his own employee, Miss Bertha Jorkins, has been missing for several months, and yet he has done nothing to discover her whereabouts. In combination with the fact that Albus Dumbledore also had a leading role in the arrangement of this tournament it seems not unfair to fear the worst. Dumbledore's control over Hogwarts, and perhaps his own faculties has been slipping over the last few years. In 1992 he failed to prevent a series of apparently murderous attacks upon his students which Lord Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts, has revealed only ended by pure chance, a chance Dumbledore was eager to use to his own advantage. Only last year, despite the well advised presence of dementors to guard the school the dangerous criminal Sirius Black managed not only to break into, but break out of Hogwarts right under the aging wizard's nose._

_When we reflect upon the disaster which the World Cup became can we really hope that the Triwizard Tournament, organised by figures such as these will do anything more than bring disgrace to our nation and quite probably cost the life of at least one child._

_For more on the Triwizard Tournament turn to page 9._

Harry was about to reply when one of the first years came running up to him, Harry groaned inwardly.

'Hello, are you Harry Potter?' The small boy asked, his eyes as round as saucers. Harry nodded wearily.

'Cool! I mean Professor Dumbledore told me to give you this,' said the child who was now virtually bouncing up and down at having spoken to both Dumbledore and Harry on his first day, 'I'm Harry Grimshaw, by the way, my parents named me after you …'

'Thanks Harry,' Harry replied with an effort, 'I'm afraid I've got to go to class right now, so haven't got time to chat. Got to run, have fun,' as he began to sprint from the hall Hedwig took off from his shoulder with an indignant bark at being left so peremptorily.

As he slowed to a stop near the transfiguration classroom marked on the timetable McGonagall had handed out that morning he opened the note from Dumbledore. It was written in thin, curling handwriting which swooped elegantly across the parchment, it read:

_Dear Harry,_

_If you still wish to begin learning the art we discussed I would be most grateful if you would come to my office at eight o'clock tonight after supper._

_I am very fond of Fizzwhizztrills._

_Yours,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

* * *

_Double Period before Lunch – September the Second_

The defence classroom was large, light poured in through the wide windows. The storm clouds of the night before had vanished leaving a clear, blue, sky. At the front of the class stood Professor Moody, his presence, or his ragged appearance had stunned both Gryffindors and Slytherins into silence for once. As he addressed the class his voice sounded as if he had eaten a bucketload of broken glass and finished it off with a sprinkling of gravel.

'Now, I'm here to teach you all I can in one year about how to defend yourselves, and I am here only, and I repeat only as a favour to Dumbledore, so do not try my patience. After you lot I'm back to a nice quiet retirement. I hear you've already had a pretty thorough education on magical creatures, but I'm here to teach you to defend against _wizards,_ from one another. You are, or could be among the most dangerous creatures this world knows.

'As such the main element of what I am going to teach you is curses, and how to defend yourself from them,' he growled out, slowly limping down the classroom, his false leg with its foot carved in imitation of a dragon's paw knocking on the floor in an ominous drumbeat.

'The first rule in defence is CONSTANT VIGILANCE!' He bellowed into Seamus Finnegan' ear spittle coating the side of the boy's face.

'Always expect the unexpected Finnegan, and don't chew gum in my class!' Seamus, shaken removed the gum from his mouth and Moody made a sharp jab at it with his wand, it turned into a mouse which he picked up and carried back to the front of the class. As he did so he drew a silver hip flask, engraved with what looked like a curling serpent, from his pocket and took a gulp, licking his lips as he put it away.

'To begin with you need to know some of the worst things that can happen to you. The Ministry doesn't want you to know about these spells, but Dumbledore and I think that you should. These are not necessarily _the worst_ things that can happen to you, but they are certainly up there and if you are ever attacked by a dark wizard these are curses you'll be likely to face. They are named the Unforgivables, why is that?'

Hermione's hand snapped up, along with a few others which rose more tentatively.

'Granger, isn't it?' Asked Moody, 'go on then, tell us, why are they called that?'

'Because they are Unforgivable, any one of them would earn a life sentence in Azkaban, if not the Dementor's Kiss.'

'Right, good answer, ten points to Gryffindor. So then, can you name one of them for me?'

'I … I'd rather not sir.'

'Fair enough, anyone else?'

Malfoy put up his hand, smirking as he did so.

'Lucius' boy isn't it, why am I not surprised you know one? Still go on then …'

'The Cruciatus curse,' he suggested shooting an unpleasant look at Neville who looked as if he might be sick even at the mention of its name.

'Yes, that's one of the worst, almost unblockable. You won't even be trying the shield to stop that one in here this year. Still,' he said putting down the mouse that had been Seamus' chewing gum, 'I suppose I better show it to you. _Crucio_!'

The mouse twisted a tiny, high pitched screaming coming from it. Most of the class leaned back in their seats, eager to get as far away from it as possible, Malfoy was not looking at the mouse though, but Neville who seemed on the verge of tears.

'Stop it!' Hermione cried out shrilly, she too was looking at Neville whose fingers were beginning to gouge into the wood of the desk in front of him.

Then the screaming stopped as with a crack the mouse broke its own back. Moody flicked his wand and only a lump of chewing gum remained on the desk, and sat down heavily.

'Pain, the torture curse. Supposedly the worst feeling imaginable, I certainly haven't felt anything worse than that. Want it back Finnegan?' He asked. Seamus shook his head violently.

'Well then someone name another.'

Ron's hand rose hesitantly into the air.

'Weasley, I'd recognise your family's hair anywhere, go on.'

'The Imperius curse, I think my Dad mentioned that one,' said Ron, as if he were almost asking a question.

'Yes, your father would know that,' said Moody, nodding. 'A right pain in the backside for the Ministry in the last war, well I could give you a lecture on it, but I think a demonstration's more appropriate.' He raised his wand and pointed it swiftly at Lavender Brown and muttered, '_Imperio_!'

The girl froze in her seat her eyes going blank before she rose gracefully and spinning on her toes like a ballerina, she ran down the centre of the class room skipping and vaulted straight over her desk. There was a smattering of uneasy laughter.

'So you think it's funny do you?' Roared Moody. 'What id I did this to you? I could make you do anything, kill your best friend, jump out of the window. I'd be able to control your every action, if I wanted I could tell you to stop breathing, and guess what? You would.' He walked Lavender back to her seat and sat her down before releasing the spell, for a few seconds she just sat there before bursting into tears.

'Sorry lass. The Imperius can't be blocked, but it can be fought, pure force of will that is what will protect you, and it is also what powers the spell. All you need is concentration and a will to dominate the mind of the victim. If you are willing I'll give you each a trial with it at the end of this class. Now what is the last curse?'

No one answered, and so after looking around Hermione's hand rose into the air.

'Yes?'

Hermione wet her lips before speaking, '_Avada Kedavra_,' she whispered.

Several people shifted uneasily, and even Malfoy swallowed nervously.

'Ah,' said Moody, softly, a slight smile twisting his lips. 'The worst of the lot. No, don't look so frightened, I'm not about to use it. The killing curse, unblockable, deadly, only one known survivor,' he added glancing at Harry. 'The Ministry legalised its use by Aurors in the War. Bad idea if you ask me, and I used it myself. There are a hundred different ways you could kill a man, even an over powered tickling jinx could do it, hold a witch or wizard under that for long enough and they'll literally split their sides laughing; a vanishing charm, or petrification spell at the heart, both deadly;_expelliarmus,_ with enough force; _wingardium leviosa_, drop someone fifty feet they aren't likely to live through it; in Ireland recently the IM found traces of a summoning spell at a site where twelve Garda were killed, that summoning spell had killed most of them. So why then is _Avada Kedavra _the one we class as an Unforgivable?

'Have any of you heard the phrase, "getting a taste for killing",' a few of the class, Harry included, nodded. 'Yes, well using the killing curse does just that. It rots your soul, you come to care less and less for other solutions, it's quick, it's easy, it is powered by how much hate you pour into it, not magic. But, once you use it you start to _need _to use it more. Even Voldemort's,' the class flinched, 'lieutenants, even Bellatrix Lestrange,' Neville gave out a small growl, 'tried not to use that one more than occasionally. Every wizard or witch who has used it with any frequency has eventually snapped and tried to kill everyone around them, family, friends, lovers. Some of the Aurors who got too comfortable with using it in the War were locked away along with the Death Eaters in Azkaban. Whether or not you think Lord Voldemort snapped … well that's another matter.'

After his speech Moody paused for a little, and then began to work systematically through the class exposing them to the Imperius curse. Only Harry, Hermione and surprisingly Neville managed to resist it. As class finished Moody gestured for Harry to remain behind for a few minutes, and instructed Neville to wait outside the door.

The door closed as Hermione, the last of the class to leave for once left the room, waving a little goodbye to Harry. Moody sat down again and waved a hand to indicate Harry should too, before he began to speak.

'Potter, Dumbledore spoke to me about giving you a bit of extra help to defend yourself. I'm willing to help you, Merlin knows that you you _and_ your classmates need it if what I've heard is true. By the look of things you're decently fit already, and really you don't need much more than a decent level of fitness. What you really need is fast reactions, that's what sets a warlock apart, luckily for you quidditch should help, especially as a seeker.

'I'm not going to be training you in physical combat, I'm not exactly suited, and to be frank if you look at great warrior wizards the last to have anything like a moderate skill in battle was Godric Gryffindor, and that was mainly bestowed by the enchantments on his sword. If you are close enough to use hand to hand combat against your foe chances are either it is too late, or you won't need the training.'

Harry nodded, 'Will I be learning new spells then?'

'A few, not many more than your classmates, what I am going to teach you is how to fight in battle. You could have as many spells as Dumbledore at your fingertips, but unless you can use them fluidly, under stress then a wizard with just a well timed _expelliarmus_ can beat you. The key is CONSTANT VIGILANCE! We'll meet up on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons, since there isn't any quidditch practice this year that shouldn't inconvenience your schedule too much. And Potter, I knew your parents, part of the reason I'm doing this is to make sure that James and Lily's didn't sacrifice their lives only for their son to throw his away before his time, so I damn well expect you to give this your all. Now shoo, and tell Longbottom to come in.'

* * *

It had been, as far as Harry knew, several decades, if not centuries since students at Hogwarts had looked forward to History of Magic classes as anything more than an opportunity to catch up on sleep. Excluding that is Hermione who had somehow managed to find enjoyment in the class, it was from people like her, Harry supposed, that the tiny trickle of texts on magical history continued to be produced despite the extraordinarily late Professor Binns' apparent vendetta against such activities.

The unknown quantity which was Professor T. Morgan raised almost as much speculation as Mad-Eye-Moody had done. The trepidation with which students approached her class though was more based upon the worry that while she might be as boring as Binns it would probably be harder to fall asleep in a living teacher's class without being noticed, rather than the fear that Mad-Eye might just decide to go on a rampage and turn them all into rabbits as he had apparently done with a third year class which had dared to start whispering while he was teaching.

When Harry and Hermione entered the classroom, slightly earlier than the others as Hermione had been insistent that they would be late if they did not leave the great hall quarter of an hour before the lesson, despite the fact that even on the days that Hogwarts shifted its layout massively the History of Magic classroom had never been more than a five minute walk. Ron had stayed behind to catch up on some much needed eating, as he had declared anything which took less than a good half hours solid eating to finish should not count as a meal. The classroom looked somewhat different to normal, over the last three years Harry had become accustomed to bare boards and windowsills covered in dust, an air of age that suggested that the room had been forgotten about, or that it had decided to reflect Professor Binns' teaching style.

The room had become almost unrecognisable over the holiday's, however, dust was completely absent, the floor was covered not in old, dusty boards, but a carpet, unusual in the normally flagstone floors of Hogwarts classrooms, in reds, blacks, blues and golds, the threads weaving together in complex looping patterns. To the sides stood glass cases within which lay artifacts. In one a curved, black claw the length of Harry's forearm with serrated edges which a label identified as belonging to a demon from the inner circles of Pandemonium, supposedly defeated by the united efforts of the teaching staff of Hogwarts, though since there were no survivors of the battle itself, or witnesses such reports were suspect. A second held a thin circlet of gold and silver, the case of which bore the legend: _The Crown of the Kings of Lyonesse_.

'Examining my collection?' Asked a rich, contralto voice, a hint of amusement seeping through the words as Harry and Hermione jumped. 'Don't worry, they are there to be looked at, but I'd get to your seats, I'll be starting the class shortly.'

The class which followed was not like any history lesson Harry had had before, Professor Morgan began by introducing herself and when asked how it had come about that Professor Binns had left she replied that, 'He had an accident.' What sort of accident might befall a ghost, no-one asked. It was quickly revealed that Professor Morgan had a rather different attitude to history itself to Binns, where he had dismissed myths as worthless she began by reading one from a parchment:

_In the books of Nimue, the last and greatest of the pupils of Merlin, it is said that at the end of Merlin's life there came a great conflict. There have been many accounts in the succeeding years of how Merlin was trapped in cave or tree by Nimue and that Arthur the blessed king of Logres fell long afterwards. These stories are lies. This is the account which I had from my father, and his father before him, back to the days when these events occurred._

_For many long years Arthur with the help of Merlin and Nimue had protected the land of Logres against both its mortal foes, the Saxons, and the children of the land, the Sidhe. However, it came to pass that a great lord among the Sidhe arose, and he was named the Lord of Mists, though his lieutenant the Pale Man whose right name no book records (if it was ever known) was still more feared than he. By foul council he persuaded the nephew of Arthur, the king, to rise in rebellion against his uncle, and with the help of his mother and aunt, the enchantresses Morgause and Morgan le Fay they set the realm to fire and the sword. Wherever Arthur rode peace came for he carried with him the sword Caliburn, known then as Caledfwlch,and the Sidhe fled before him as it was said that even the Pale Man feared its bite as the only weapon that might ever bring him death, but Arthur could not be everywhere. At last Merlin devised a plan to defeat the foes of the realm in a final stroke which while it might leave all free for the Saxons to conquer as they would it was still better than the annihilation to come at the Sidhe's hand._

_Arthur led his host deep into the Cornish lands to a valley known as Golitha falls near a village we know by the name of Godric's Hollow. It was a day late in the year, as the host rode between the trees leaves of fire and gold fell around them and the pale sunlight glinted from the silver of their armour. Without warning, from the surrounding woodlands warriors bearing the arms of Medraut burst, and fell upon the army. With Medraut came draugs, banshees, the black hounds, the long-limbed giantkin with their glowing eyes, the nobles of the fey with their swords of bronze and enchanted silver. The men of Arthur held the line for many hours, fighting against all odds and Arthur himself cut down the foe as a reaper of wheat. Around them, unseen Merlin wove a spell of binding while Nimue held back Morgana and Morgause. At the last moment Nimue fled to his side pursued by the greater part of the Sidhe host led by the Lord of Mists who left Medraut and his men to finish Arthur, who with his last companions stood bold upon a hill of the slain as blood poured into the falls._

_Nimue ran leading them into the Hollow Hill. Merlin sat upon a throne of blue steel within a room of stone within the hill, he had bound himself to the hill itself with heavy chains as blue as the bluebells in spring. There he sat and as the last of the forces of the Sidhe entered the earth Merlin released the spell, binding them all to enchanted sleep, sacrificing his life and power to bind all save Nimue, whom he sent to safety, in a single moment for the rest of time, or till the blood of his kin or hers shall release the Lord of Mists._

_As the spell was cast Arthur plunged his blade deep into the heart of the traitor Medraut, falling to the mortal wounds he had received by his nephew's hand. The last survivors of the battle carried his sword to the waters and returned it to the Lady who promised to return it if a worthy wielder could be found._

_Of the Pale Man though it is said he that he escaped the fate of his kin and still walks the world as a handful of the other Sidhe still do. That he hunts the children of Percival last of the companions and Nimue,_my_ family the Peverells and the children of Nimue's first lover, Merlin, is but a rumour. Still though I fear that he comes for me, in the dark of the night chill winds blow about my room and I hear the breathing of a watcher beyond my door._

_What I have written here is the truth, may God strike me dead if it is not,_

_Richard Peverell, in the year of our Lord 1456_

'Legends and stories are essential to our understanding, not only of contemporary culture, but to the understanding of how things were remembered. These are only two aspects of what we may learn from such works. For homework I wish you to examine this manuscript, which I will give out copies of at the end of class. This is obviously a modern translation, but it will serve for this purpose. From what I can tell you have been completely uneducated in anything save so called "facts".'

The rest of the class took the form of a discussion of what might be learnt from a rather more serious chronicle account of the struggle.

* * *

It was twenty to eight when Harry set off from the Gryffindor common room, behind him as the portrait closed Hermione was trying to explain to Neville how to do the correct wand movements for creating a simple shield against spells, the practical part of the homework from Moody, while helping Ron with an essay on the spells it could be used to block and why they were affected by this particular shield. Unfortunately the fact that she had begun to explain the properties of the shield from the perspective of arithmancy was evidently beginning to take its toll on Ron.

Argus Filch prowling in the corridor outside the Fat Lady's painting glared at him, but unable to find any reason to accuse him of anything was forced to let Harry pass.

The last rays of the evening sun, flaming and huge against the horizon pierced the windows as Harry walked towards Dumbledore's office, painting the corridors a deep, vibrant red. As he rounded one of the corners he bumped into a large man wearing robes stripped like a wasp.

'Ah, Harry, great to see you,' he boomed, a smile spreading over his childlike face. 'Looking forward to the Tournament? It's going to be absolutely fantastic!'

'Yeah, it sounds as though it should be good to watch. By the way, I didn't really get to say thanks properly after the World Cup …'

'Not at all, not at all. I'm sure you're sad you can't take part in the competition aren't you? I know I am, seven years at Hogwarts hoping they'd bring back the damn thing and now I'm the one whose doing it,' a look of half-wistful longing crossed his face. 'With a lot of help from Crouch and Dumbledore, and oh well, a host of other people who know all the nitty gritty types of things. I think even old Mad-Eye is doing something for it.'

'Really?' Harry said surprised despite himself.

'Oh yes, can't tell you what of course, though I must say we've out done ourselves in what we've got coming up. I don't think they've ever had one of the palug cats in a tournament, and in the first rou … sorry, tongue getting ahead of my brain there, as always,' he added ruefully, his face clouding over, 'don't mention it to anyone will you, I've already got Skeeter telling me I'm a failure and should be sacked after the World Cup.'

'I'll keep it secret,' promised Harry.

'Good lad …'

'Ludo, where have you got to?' Called a strict, officious voice.

'Erm, got to run, Harry, see you later,' said Bagman before virtually taking off at a run down the corridor.

Seconds later Mr Crouch walked round one of the corners up ahead. Noticing Harry he nodded stiffly to him before brushing past, looking around as he did so, presumably for Bagman.

Harry looked at his watch, there were barely five minutes left till he was to meet with Dumbledore. He began to run, feet thumping on the flagstones, jumping onto staircases which were beginning to move, diving through secret passages and leaping over false steps. One minute before eight Harry reached the gargoyle which guarded Dumbledore's office and panted out the password: 'Fizzwhizztrills.'

'Well that's very polite I'm sure,' muttered the gargoyle sullenly as it began to swing aside. 'No, "how are you?" "How's your day been?" Not even a "please". No, all I get is a "move!" … well will you look at that, gone without even a "goodbye" … young squishies these days …'

Harry walked up the moving staircase a little way to get away from the gargoyle's continuing rant. He relaxed slightly as the stairs rose, circling round and round, at last, as he arrived outside the door of the Headmaster's office he heard Dumbledore's voice from inside.

'Do come in Harry.'

_Three Hours Later_

Harry flopped onto the sofa next to Hermione, Ron had already gone up to bed, Hermione was still trying to work out a way to do a particularly complex piece of transfiguration magic.

'Well, how was it?' Hermione's gentle question roused him from the edge of dreams as she laid her hand on his arm.

'Difficult, basically he's apparently going to have to smash my mental barriers so that I can rebuild them. It is going to take a lot of time, and it's already given me a thumping headache. Still he gave me a ring which should keep up a barrier strong enough to at least keep the dreams off.'

'That's at least something, where is it, you don't seem to be wearing one.'

Harry grinned and twisted something Hermione could not see on his finger, a second later a thin band of sliver, inlaid with runes in black enamel was visible, 'Magic, Hermione, magic.'

* * *

_The Choosing of the Champions_

To say that Harry was shocked when his name came out of the Goblet of Fire would not be entirely true. Horrified? Certainly. Angry? Somewhat. Bemused? There was no question about it, but not shocked. It is hard to shock a boy who learnt at eleven that he was a wizard and that his parents were brutally murdered. It is harder still to shock a boy who had for the past month been tutored by Mad-Eye Moody. It is virtually impossible to shock a boy who had woken up that same morning after a very _unusual_ dream about his best friend (the female one that is, not the red head), a dream which had been making it difficult to look at her, at least until Dumbledore's voice called out his name.

It was in an almost dreamlike state of faint disbelief that Harry drifted through the interrogation and argument between the adults, though he was still acutely aware of the eyes of the other champions upon him. By the end of the meeting as Bagman explained that the first task was to be one of cooperation, and that they might confer he had almost given up hope that they would cooperate with him as anything else but a piece of cannon fodder for whatever it was they were face.

Cedric's voice cut through his thoughts, 'Come on Harry, can't expect to do this alone now can you? I know I'm glad to have anyone else on side if they thought it would need three of us to do it.'

Harry gave him a grateful smile, ignoring Fleur's look of calculation as he fell in step with them as they followed Professor Moody. They were led to a large tower room somewhere in the castle, Moody briefly explained that it was to be a training area for them and a place for them to meet to work out possible strategies before he gave them the password and clumped off into the recesses of the castle.

'I vill not vork with this _чедо. _He shall slows us down,' Krum snapped the instant the door had swung shut, a look of mistrust and sour dislike marring his features.

'It is "slow" us down, and _oui_ I agree,' added Fleur, apparently her appraisal of Harry had not been positive.

'Look guys, I know Harry, he's a decent bloke, and hell if half the stories going around this school about him are true then he's more than capable of doing his part. He's even said to have killed a basilisk ...'

'Anyone can kill a basilisk, all you have to do is be holding a cockerel!' Fleur answered her lips pursed.

'He did when he was twelve, with a sword,' Cedric continued unperturbed.

'Impossible,' Krum's short answer broke in.

'Look, could we stop talking as if I'm not here? I don't want to be here any more than you want me. Thanks for standing up for me Cedric, by the way. I am here though and so we have to work with it, give me a chance, that's all I ask, I promise you won't lose by it,' Harry broke in, their faces turning to him in surprise as if they had not anticipated his ability to speak.

'You are just a leetle boy, and of course you wanted to take part, who wouldn't? Eternal glory? Wealth? Zese are everybody's dreams.'

'Not mind, I have more than enough fame if you think about it, and my parents left me well off. In any case this isn't going to help us, come on, let's at least try to work together.'

Krum eyed him speculatively, '_Ya_, I think you understand the price of fame, I see it in your eyes,' he grinned, 'and in the vurst case ve can always hide you somewhere in the school, it is much larger than Durmstrang, it might be sometime before anyone found you.' Harry laughed nervously.

Cedric sighed, obviously relaxing, 'Well then, if that's quite settled, does anyone have any ideas about what the first task might be about? I've done some research and it seems they almost always have some kind of contest against a magical creature, though normally they are individual contests, so it's probably something pretty tough.'

Krum and Fleur shook their heads, Harry was about to follow suit before the memory struck him, 'Erm, kind of, I think Bagman let slip something about a "palug" cat, if you know what that is?'

Three jaws dropped. 'Well,' remarked Cedric wryly, 'it seems the cub is already earning his keep.'

'Vhat is a "cub"?' Asked Krum after a pause, 'My Englysh, it needs vork ...'

* * *

_Later that Night_

As soon as Harry entered the Gryffindor Common Room he could sense the tension, it seemed that there had been a party, presumably to celebrate the fact that he had managed to pass the age line and become a champion, or for whatever other reason his housemates had dreamt up. However, he could see Ron's arm poking out from the side of the armchair by the fire, and opposite there was just a glimpse of Hermione. The fact that they weren't speaking, even to argue spoke volumes in itself. He coughed quietly to announce his presence.

'Hello Harry,' Hermione's voice sounded unusually strained and timid.

'Hi Hermione, hi Ron,' he sunk into the chair next to Hermione, basking in the warmth of the fire after the chill of autumn which was pervading the corridors.

'Why?' Ron's terse question was almost spat.

'Ron please don't, just sleep on it ...' Hermione began to plead, but Harry cut her off.

'No, what is it Ron, why what?'

'Why didn't you tell us what you were going to do? Why didn't you give me a shot at it? I could bloody well do with eternal glory and money more than you could.'

'I didn't _do _anything, if you haven't noticed I don't tend to go and _do _things, they happen to me,' Harry could feel all the rage and frustration which had suppressed as he had passed the whisperers in the great hall, been accused and interrogated by the adults who claimed to have tried to make the tournament safer, and worked past the initial dismissal of the other champions, building up pooling like magma against a wooden barricade. Ron's jealousy seemed the perfect righteous target. 'If you aren't capable of dealing with a friend who has foul luck I'd advise you to look elsewhere.'

'Foul luck? Are you kidding? I would have done _anything_ for a chance like this, why do you think so many people applied? Because they thought it'd be nice to have a bad time? If you're trying to pull the sob story, "I'm Harry Potter and life is so unfair to me," give up. Compared to many your life's still a blessed walk in the park.'

'Thanks for your support Ron, next time you need a bit of help dealing with possible death remind me that really you ought to be trying not to hog all the glory of being maimed to yourself. Then again maybe I should just bow out when the going gets tough as you always do? Three years running and you're never there as the curtain rises on the last scene are you?'

Ron's face generally red when angry was a burning white beneath his hair as if all the blood had been drained away, 'Don't bother yourself Harry, I'm sure you know how to take care of yourself, let's hope the great Harry Potter doesn't need his friends in future, but then I suppose you've got new friends now. Yes Hermione and I saw you going away with the other _champions. _I hope you have fun with them,' and with a sneer he stormed out of the room.

Harry closed his eyes wearily. The anger draining away leaving him empty and hollow. A few seconds passed, before he felt a hand give his shoulder a light squeeze.

'I'm sure he doesn't mean it Harry, he's just upset,' Hermione's voice was soft and sad.

'Best time for speaking the truth though isn't it? Makes you let your feelings out,' he snorted derisively.

'Did you mean what you said then?'

His face contorted, 'No, not really. I'm not going to apologise though, he started it, if he wants to make amends then he'd better get over himself.'

Hermione gave a small smile, 'Occlumancy really paying off then, I didn't expect that answer to be honest. Remember though Harry I'm always here for you, and I'll help you. No matter what.'

* * *

In the following weeks it became apparent to Hermione that the loss of Ron's friendship had hit Harry harder than she had at first thought. Without Quidditch or Ron to lighten his mood he became more and more withdrawn until he hardly spoke to anyone other than the other champions and Hermione herself. On the one hand he began to seem to be positively enjoying studying, which she could not help but feel was a good thing. Yet on the other it was little comfort to have a Harry who whenever he did not know that she was there seemed little more than a shell of his former self, it was heartening to see his face light up when she entered a room, but at the same time worrying since she knew that when she left he would slip back into sullen silence.

One night in late November she came down the stairs from the girl's dormitories to pick up Crookshanks who, despite being a cat, was recognised as a male and was therefore unable to enter the girl's rooms. As she entered the room she saw Harry sitting by the fireplace, still awake, though the time must have been far past midnight.

'Harry, are you okay?'

He looked up, a pencil and pad of paper falling to the floor as he jumped in shock, 'Yes Hermione I'm fine. Don't worry.'

'What are you doing?' She asked tentatively, walking over and reaching down to pick up the paper for him. His hand moved faster though and despite the fact she had started first their hands reached the paper at the same time, brushing against one another. Harry jerked back as if stung, muttering an apology. She picked up the paper and was about to hand it back to him when she noticed what it was. There was a sketch of the common room, filled with miniscule details that she would have hardly picked out without hours of looking. The picture was hardly of magnificent quality, but it was nonetheless pleasing to the eye.

'Wow, Harry, I didn't know you could draw.'

'Well, I can't really. Not much anyway.'

'This is really good, when did you learn?'

Harry scratched his ear, obviously embarrassed, 'Well, I don't do it much at Hogwarts, normally quidditch takes up my spare time, but at the moment ... Anyway, I just started in primary school and since it was one of the things I could do without the Dursley's finding out I carried on. Even they can't fill up _all _my days with chores, so I practice in the summer, there isn't exactly much else I can do around there. Without magic, and without you or ...' he paused for a second before hurrying on as if he had made a mistake, 'or anyone else to talk to. Do you like it?'

'Yes, as I said it's really good, I might have to commission a drawing from you to send to my parents,' she joked, 'perhaps with me in the armchair with a book.'

'I am at your service as always, though I might want a copy,' Harry replied with a mischievous grin, and then paled as if he had said the wrong thing.

'Maybe. Anyway, night Harry, make sure you get some sleep, I'll see you in the morning.'

Hermione went up the stairs smiling, for some reason talking to Harry almost always left her with a grin plastered over her face.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm using Google Translate here so Krum's use of the word чедо any Bulgarian speakers are more than welcome to bash me over the head with a rolling pin and drum the right word into my head. I've made a slight alteration to one or two of the details mentioned in the prologue after looking up the Peverell family tree, hopefully it shouldn't be too confusing here. The prologue has been altered to bring it in line with the rest of the story.


	8. Fate's Plaything

**Disclaimer: **There will be time, there will be time, time for me and time for you. However, all of time can't alter the fact that Harry Potter is not mine. _Cue dramatic sobs_.

**A/N: **I think this chapter should mark a turning point in the story, the point at which I really begin to set aside the majority of the story J. K wrote and delve into my own imagination a bit more. I have struggled for a time with how to make this change, but one review which pointed out how dreadful one chapter was which I had based far too closely on Rowling's work has spurred me on. I hope this change meets with approval. Please review.

**Fate's Plaything**

_The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore._  
Vincent Van Gogh

_Thursday, the 24th of November_

_What the bloody hell is going on? _Thought Harry as he somersaulted behind the boulder, claws slashing millimetres behind his toes. Somewhere along the way in the last couple of months either he had lost his mind or Fate had just decided that all the excess bad karma in the universe should be directed his way. For some reason he found fighting a giant cat which despite its resemblance to lynx appeared impossible to so much as bruise had simply not been on his to do list.

'Duck, Harry! Duck!' A female voice yelled above the roar of the crowd. _Nearly_ all the bad karma in the universe, he corrected, thanking the Fate for leaving Hermione, despite the argument for Ron. He ducked as claws gouged chips of granite out of the large rock.

'Harry Potter looks as if he's having a bit of trouble there … ouch that looked close. Lucky he's fast, our young champion seems to be struggling with the palug,' Bagman's amplified words rang out over the arena. Harry still was not sure whether to thank luck that Bagman had let slip what the first task had as the opponent before Harry himself had even known he'd be involved, then again since Hagrid had given the information away shortly after the bizarre selection of the now four champions he half wondered if being told had not, in some sinister way, made the Goblet select him.

The ball of golden and black fur he was dodging hurtled by as he spun on his heel, razor sharp claws slicing open a cut on his cheek. Seriously who had thought that a relative of a nundu was a good thing to start a supposedly less lethal version of the tournament with? A spell from Cedric Diggory, white hot and blazing sizzled by, the smell of burning ozone filling the air as it smashed into the giant wildcat knocking it off course from its charge at the French champion, Fleur Delacour. It yowled and skidded to a stop, pine needles flying under its paws, a slight singe mark blackening some of its golden fur.

The pretty, young French girl was wielding a whip of living fire to keep the creature back as it prowled around her. A snarl hissed from between its jaws.

'Any luck with the inscription Krum?' Shouted Harry, risking a glance over his shoulder, the Bulgarian shook his head.

_Damn International Cooperation_, thought Harry, _this is going to be an international slaughter_. The plan by the organisers to give an initial task to foster fellow feeling was either working extremely well, or extremely badly depending on which way you looked at it, the champions all were sharing the same feeling: _we're all going to die_. The last palug reported to have been definitely slain was in the early sixth century by the warrior-mage Cei, and apart from a verse in the Black Book of Carmarthen there were no reports of the occasion, and when Hermione had found the verse, it merely read:

_His shield was fractured  
against the Cath Palug  
When people enquire:  
'Who killed Cath Palug?'  
Nine-score warriors  
fell as her food  
nine-score champions._

Beyond a deep sense of foreboding Harry had found the passage exceptionally unhelpful. He was not even sure that verse confirmed it had been killed. It seemed that the only notes of actually how to deal with one had been removed from the library, apart from ones which warned anyone facing it to get out of there. The problem was the only way out of the heavily warded pit they were now in was to defeat the palug. Though Moody (after he had heard Harry warn Cedric of exactly what they were facing, though at the time he had not known it would be together) had offered the information that fire might just hold it off. The information needed was written on a plinth in the centre of the arena, the problem being that it required all four champions to pump magic into it while avoiding being torn to pieces by the palug, which was casually shrugging off the spells they threw at it.

The palug leapt, barrelling into Fleur, with a shriek of rage the girl's skin exploded into flames. The palug pushed her away, leaving deep claw marks on the front of her robes, from which blood welled. Harry had to admire her pluck, even with the chunk of the skin on her neck hanging loose, torn by a bite from the creature she still continued to stand straight and tall, pouring magic into the plinth. However, he had better things to do than admire Fleur, the palug had left the girl and was heading back towards Krum where he stood in a small clearing between the pine trees which were dotted around the arena.

'One hour and a half into the task and our champions seem to be flagging here,' suggested the ominous commentary.

Harry fired a cutting spell at the cat, noticing the shivering crescent of red light it crouched, only for the spell to crash into the scots pine, barely a foot beyond. Bark and resin sprayed out, thick droplets of the tree's blood landing on the palug. With a screech it leapt to its feet rushing away from the tree as smoke curled up from its resin speckled flank. Harry's eyes widened in shock, he was about to yell the news to the others when Krum beat him to it.

'The blut of those who are ever clad in green shall be your friend,' yelled Krum, his heavy accent muffling the words, 'The trees! Ve need to use the trees!'

Cedric swished his wand in a wide circle the air around the palug swirled as if in a tornado, before coalescing into a mighty oak. Cedric staggered, gasping for air, leaning against the wall which surrounded the battleground. For a second Harry relaxed, the crowd began to clap in admiration, and then with a shudder the trunk of the tree, where the palug had been enclosed was ripped apart by the cat, with a screech, despite ruffled fur it seemed unfazed. The tree swayed and with a ripping crash, fell, Krum leapt, but too late, a branch landed on his leg trapping it, the bone broke with a ringing snap. As he screamed the crowd gasped and went silent, Harry thought he could hear the sound of a girl sobbing. _Maybe Ron_, he thought viciously.

'This does not look good, I think maybe the odds have turned here,' Bagman's words were hazy in Harry's ears, solemn, without the gleeful joy which had permeated his statements earlier.

The palug advanced towards the shaking boy, its footfalls hardly more than a breeze over the pine needles. It looked at him, its muzzle contorted into a feline grin. Harry and Fleur were frozen in shock, Cedric hardly able to keep himself upright. The palug sauntered forward enjoying the smell of fear and urine from its wounded prey, preparing for the killing bite. In the whole arena no-one moved. The creature pressed a paw down on Krum's chest to keep him from wriggling, Krum clenched his jaw, and with one swift movement brought up his wand levelling it at the beast's eye, before carefully enunciating, '_Depulso._' With a searing flash of light the cat was hurled backwards twenty feet, landing on its back leg with a crunch. Krum with a small chuckle, fainted.

The cat stood, blood was leaking from a ruined eye as it began to limp towards Fleur and Harry who stood, side by side in front of Cedric who was still fighting a losing battle for consciousness. Both of the two remaining champions were covered in cuts, bruises and wounds. Fleur was by far the worse off of the two, yet somehow she was soldiering on, despite having single handedly held the creature off for easily the first half hour of the task.

'Fleur,' Harry murmured quietly, 'if I summon the resin from the pines can you encase that … _thing _in it?'

'Oui,' was the simple reply.

'_Accio!_' Harry bellowed. Resin flowed from the trees in a stream of bronze and pale gold, springing from every fibre of the wood. Fleur twirled her wand and the resin began to spiral into shimmering ropes which glittered in the sunlight, tiny pieces of bark and wood floating in the liquid. With a final twist of her wand Fleur directed the resin towards the palug. As the viscous, sticky substance touched the giant cat it screeched ferociously, clawing at the thin streams, desperate to escape, but it was to no avail. Within minutes the struggle was over, the palug was as solidly encased in amber as an ancient mosquito.

'The champions have done it! The palug is once more trapped in its prison of amber! By their use of teamwork they have triumphed!' Roared Bagman over the shouts of the crowd.

Harry sank to his knees, collapsing into a heap along with Cedric and Fleur. The last thing he remembered before the blackness claimed him was Hermione hugging him, tears falling onto his cheeks.

* * *

_Three Hours Later_

'I only got seven out of ten for inventiveness?' Asked Harry for the sixth time. He was lying in the Champion's tent, virtually his entire upper body wrapped in bandages. Hermione nodded wearily, again.

'I was the one who thought to kill that blasted thing in amber!'

'Actually Harry, Bagman announced before you came out, when you couldn't hear that you can't kill a palug … only trap it, give it a few weeks and it'll be free from the amber and unharmed.'

Harry began to pound his pillow in anger, stopping as lancing pains shot through him from his wounds. He ground his teeth in frustration.

'Anything else I ought to know? How are the others?'

'Well Fleur is in first place, then you, then Cedric, then Krum. You're all very closely matched, I think they didn't want to separate you by too much in the first round. Especially when they'd put you through _that ..._'

While Harry privately enjoyed seeing Hermione rant on his behalf he felt he should probably step in, 'I meant are they okay? Fleur and Krum looked pretty beaten up.'

Hermione nodded, 'Yes, they're getting put back together as it were, Madame Pomfrey's giving Bagman a right earful about it though.' Hermione glanced over her shoulder, apparently seeing something which Harry could not, 'Um, I'm just going to step outside the tent for a moment.'

Before he could stop her she was gone, Harry relaxed onto his pillow closing his eyes. The sound of a familiar awkward cough made his eyes snap open. Looking up he saw the tall and gangly figure of Ron, chewing at the inner sides of his lips in embarrassment.

'Hi, Harry,' he said weakly, his ears burning a red almost as bright as his ears.

'What do you want?' Harry replied, attempting to channel his inner Malfoy, unfortunately it seemed he'd merely managed to sound extremely tired given Ron's reply.

'I don't want to keep you up too long, but I wanted to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted you, you'd have had to be off your rocker to go up against that thing, especially with everything else on your plate,' Ron muttered, scratching the back of his head and avoiding looking at Harry.

Harry beamed, he had put out his hand to shake Ron's and was about to reply when a blinding flash caught them off guard.

'Young love, how … _delicious_,' Rita Skeeter strode into the tent, 'I can just picture the scoop on you two, Weasley and Potter, two of the oldest families in a forbidden love affair. I think this actually trumps nailing that Granger bint …'

'Either you get out of here now and stop bothering him, or I'll curse you and your photographer from here to kingdom come,' said Ron, his voice calm and serious. 'You see I have a cursebreaker as a brother, and you have to ask yourself this, would he have taught me a few of the old curses that you might find on tombs? Do you want to know the answer that?'

Rita Skeeter hesitated for a moment as if she was wondering exactly how big a story it would make to have curses from the tombs of the pharaohs unleashed in northern Britain. It seemed that since the target of said curses was her it was not really quite worth it, though she could not resist one last parting shot.

'Don't worry boys I've got what I wanted. Herbert, do you think we can get rid of the clothes for the printing if we make it tasteful? It would add a sprinkling of … what is that word? Oh yes, truth to the whole thing,' she turned and laughing walked away.

'Thanks mate,' said Harry grinning, at last the cloud which had been hanging over him since the beginning of the tournament seemed to be breaking. Hermione and Ron were both his friends again, he had not been killed and who could want more than that, his mind strayed to Hermione, well, much more than that.

Ron had gone several shades paler, his freckles standing out vividly against his face, 'Harry, what do you think Mum will do if she reads that we're in love?'

The look on Ron's face as he contemplated the idea was enough to make Harry wish Colin Creevey was nearby with his camera. Harry waited a few seconds, _damn_, he thought_, evidently Fate doesn't like me that much, but hey there's time._

* * *

_Friday, the 2nd of December_

'Professor, what do you mean, partners?' Harry asked, a feeling as though he had been plunged into icy water spreading through him.

'You must have a dance partner for the ball, Potter, I'd have thought it was obvious. The Yule Ball, as the name should tell you, is a dance,' Professor McGonagall's strong Scottish brogue sounded as a knell of doom in his ears. 'Now, Gryffindors, the first dance you will be learning today is the foxtrot …'

* * *

Harry and Ron stumbled back up to their dorm in a daze. The world seemed to have grown dim before their eyes, somehow facing basilisks, palugs, dementors and werewolves did not seem to measure up to the task before them now, to ask a girl to the dance with them was tantamount to suicide in their minds, at least with other dangers you had some chance at least.

'There has to be someone who'd say yes,' muttered Harry, as if stating it to the world in general would make it true.

'Easy for you to say mate, you're a bloody hero, and even if you weren't Hermione's been driving herself crazy since September whether or not to ask you out,' came Ron's mind-numbed reply as he sank down onto his bed, passing his hand over his face in a gesture of defeat.

'Honestly right now I'd take going back in time and trying to solve all the problems caused by Grindewald rather than ask a girl to the … sorry, did you say Hermione?' Harry had been half-way through unlacing his shoe when he registered what Ron had said, a faint spark of hope blossomed in his chest.

'I didn't say anything at all about Hermione, do you hear me? Nothing!' Ron's voice had gone from panicked whisper to a thin wail as he sat bolt upright. 'Please don't mention it, I promised I wouldn't say a thing, she'll kill me …'

'No, I won't tell her you told me, but I kind of thought you wanted to go out with Hermione?' Harry asked tentatively, he had been pretty sure that Ron had had a crush on Hermione since the first year. He looked across at Ron, his friend's eyes had gone wide with panic, as if he had been told his mother was angry with him.

'Harry, I don't even tend to remember she's a girl, and personally I've never been interested in boys, or people I think are boys, whatever Rita says.'

'I still think the worst thing about that was your mother offering to find you nice boys to meet,' said Harry, grinning at the memory of the howler which had arrived the morning after the first task. Mrs Weasley had been quite vocal in how hurt she was that Ron and Harry had not told her about their relationship.

'Don't remind me, why did she think that was good thing to put in a howler? Why even send a howler, she wasn't angry?' Replied Ron with a shudder, 'Anyway though, if anything I think you should ask her.'

Harry shook his head slightly to clear it, maybe Luna was onto something with her talk of nargles and wrackspurts, though come to think of it Ron was casually mentioning them too nowadays, much to Hermoine's annoyance. 'So you're fine with me asking Hermione?'

Ron rolled his eyes, the promise from Harry not to tell Hermione seemed to have boosted his confidence, 'Well Harry thinking about, since I just suggested it, on balance … YES. Look you're my two best mates, I'd like to see you happy.'

'Thanks …' Harry struggled with the words, before deciding not to tell Ron that it was one of the best things his friend could have said.

'Good, so what are you waiting for?'

'Sorry?'

Ron slapped his forehead, sometimes Harry really could be remarkably dense, _'_Ask Hermoine to go to the freaking ball with you, she won't wait forever, and think how much Seamus and Dean will rib you over it if she's the one to ask _you. _Go, NOW!' He roared as Harry continued to sit ineffectually on the bed_._

As Harry left the room and passed Seamus on the stairs the Irish Gryffindor turned to him, grinning as he said, 'Should I wait a bit Harry, it sounds as if you and Ron were having some fun.'

Harry frowned confused before realising that Seamus, and probably most of Gryffindor would have heard Ron's shouts. He blushed and hurried on down to the common room where Hermione was sitting on the sofa practising a piece of magic similar to the one Fleur had performed to trap the palug, weeks ago now. Ribbons of fire curled around Hermione floating in the air like streamers. Harry really hoped Ron had not been pulling his leg. He coughed lightly and she turned to look at him with a smile, suddenly things seemed so much harder, if he destroyed their friendship ...

Sitting down on the sofa beside her Harry began to talk before he could come to his senses, 'Hermione,' he croaked, his mouth suddenly completely dry, 'I wanted to ask you something. It's er ... kind of important ...'

'Yes, Harry? What is it?' She asked, tilting her head to one side in concern, obviously worrying that something was wrong with him. 'You haven't been having more of those dreams?'

'No, not more of those dreams. This is kind of difficult,' and then it came out in a rush, 'I was wondering if you you might consider me as a possibility ... that is would you, could you think of maybe ... might you ever want to have me as your boyfriend?' The elegant and charming ways to ask which had floated around his head in daydreams where he inevitably ended up by kissing her dashingly were swept aside in the panic. She just looked at him, her face unchanged from a moment before.

'I'm so sorry, forget I said anything, this was stupid,' he gabbled, blushing as he made to stand up.

'Yes.'

'What?'

'I said yes, I would like that very much.'

Harry sank back onto the sofa, he felt as though his brain had been dragged out of his head and trampled over, it was a wonderful feeling. Suddenly awkward they just looked at one another for a minute or two, unable to find anything to say. Eventually Harry broke the silence needing conformation, 'Does that mean you'll go to the Yule Ball with me?'

Hermione grinned and cuffed him round the head, 'Of course I will you stupid boy.'

It was definitely the best day of Harry's life.

Everyone knows that Gryffindors are brave, everyone knows that one who loves is willing to sacrifice themselves for the object of their affection. Not all forms of bravery are clear to the observer and if you love two people who you know love one another is it not for the best to sacrifice a piece of your own happiness for theirs? Ron had grown up in a family where blame was continually shifted and guilt had to be avoided at all costs, he was a surprisingly good liar.

* * *

_Tuesday, the 6th of December_

Dumbledore read the note with a sigh, he was beginning to feel that he was playing a three way game of chess with one opponent whose pieces he could not see, he hoped that Tom could not see them either. He looked over at the delicate silver instruments which slowly ticked and whirred upon his desk, he tapped one which looked very much like an inverted spider. It twitched, smoke, the colour of the north sea, rose from it, for a second Dumbledore thought he could see a large dog prowling along a snowy road, and then the image was gone, and the smoke receded. Another had stopped moving entirely, its silver limbs twisted and blackened as if it had been melted.

He sighed again, twitching the edges of his long, worn velvet mantle about his shoulders, it had been a present from his brother, when they still exchanged presents. His hand hesitated over the piece over the small golden bell which would summon Minerva, but he could not bring himself to do it.

'Care to come for a stroll Fawkes?' He asked the phoenix. 'I'm afraid we have some news for young Harry about his family.'

With a sad nod the phoenix flew to his shoulder. Harry Potter was now the last of both his mother's and father's blood.

When Albus Dumbledore arrived at the Care of Magical Creatures class and after carefully avoiding the blast-ended skrewts, spoke to Hagrid quietly for a few seconds Harry was at a loss as to know whether something was wrong or not. Dumbledore certainly looked as though he felt the weight of the world were coming down upon his shoulders, and yet Hagrid seemed torn, somewhere in between relief and sadness.

When Dumbledore drew Harry aside and explained quietly that his cousin had been killed after taking a drug overdose by accident yesterday and that his aunt had committed suicide shortly after she had discovered Dudley's body, Harry himself did not know what to feel. True, they had hated and despised him from birth, true they had done a great deal to make his life a misery. Yet somehow this did not seem to cancel out the fact that they were family, the last of his family in the world, apart from, in a sense, Sirius. It was as if the world had become no more than a pale shell, a picture which he could put his hand through and discover it was no more than a shadow or a trick of the light.

He barely felt Hermione's hand on his shoulder, as she led him up to the castle, his ears did not hear her words. Something inside him had snapped, a bond he had never known he had with two of the people in his life he had always thought it would hurt him least to lose. There was a coldness too though, he had no proof, Dumbledore had not mentioned anything, but he felt it, inside his very bones that someone had done this, arranged this as carefully as a puppeteer pulling the strings. They had not done because they disliked the Dursleys, they had done it because they needed to, because they wanted to get to him. A small voice in Harry's head said it was unreasonably arrogant to suppose such a thing, and yet he could not convince himself that it was not true.

Memories flashed through his mind: pictures of Dudley punching him at school; the look on Aunt Petunia's face every time she looked at him; the echoing word again and again 'freak'; Hagrid making a pig's tail appear on Dudley's wide bottom. He had hated these people, but now they were gone, claimed by an opponent who had yet to show his, or her face, and as Harry thought this he came to a conclusion: the person who had done this was not going to stop, Harry had far too good a record at attracting the attention of the mad and the dangerous for that to be the case, and next time their blow might fall on a friend, that he would not allow.

* * *

_The Day Before_

Bodmahl is grinning, finally it is over. She leaves Number Four Privet Drive calmly, closing the door with a soft click behind her, secure in the knowledge that when Petunia finds Dudley her job will be complete, her own role is already finished. Through the window of Number Four she can see Petunia bustling round, pink rubber gloves pulled up to her elbows as she continues to sterilize and clean the already spotless kitchen, its surfaces shine as if they were luminescent. Now though Bodmahl intends to enjoy herself, it has been far too long. She really hates being bored, the past cannot of course be changed, but she will ensure that no-one ever has to suffer through so much as a minute of the Mallory's company again. Then she will be gone, as if she was never there to begin with.

She marches back to her house and pulling on her robes over the jeans and blouse she has been wearing. She sits downstairs, relaxing with a book until the screaming begins. The novel is not particularly gripping, though that might be her mood, if she has misjudged things it is doubtful that she will have a second chance. At a quarter to six in the evening the screaming begins. Petunia receiving no answer to her questions as to whether Dudley wants to have a snack before supper has gone upstairs and found his body, chin and shirt covered in white powder, his jaw is slack and his eyes blank, there is no heartbeat.

Bodmahl smiles with satisfaction as she hears the heart-rending sobs. A few seconds later, wand in hand she has left her house, anything that she had even remotely cared about is secured inside the enchanted pockets of her robe, there was not a great deal to take she reflects. Leaving Privet drive will be a pleasure, not a chore, she thinks as she crosses the street, taking care to walk over the immaculate lawn of the Mallory's house rather than their neat gravel path. She pauses only to cast a charm to detect human life upon Number Four, there is no response from the spell. She rips the bands out of her hair releasing the long, waves of burnished gold from the demure plaits in which she has bound it for the last few months, in order that she might conform with greater ease.

Mr Mallory opens the door, 'Do you know what that noise was?' He asks in a nasal whine. 'Emily and I were wondering whether we should ring the police, they really need to control anti-social noises like that. It just isn't right. You look different … what are you wearing?' His shocked exclamation is more of a statement than a question.

Bodmahl merely parts her lip, in more of a snarl than a smile, as she points a thin, pale stick at him. He would laugh at such a ridiculous gesture, more reminiscent of a child than an adult, but there is a grim satisfaction in her face which stops him. She pushes him back so that he stumbles into neat, ordered hallway, his shoes scuffing the cream carpet, arms flailing, fingernails scratching pristine white paint. A low mocking laugh bubbles from her, and then she speaks, her words a gratified purr, 'Hello, Derek. I think I'm really going to enjoy this visit. Are the children in?'

When the police, firemen and ambulances arrive at Privet Drive, Little Whinging at six minutes past seven there is very little to salvage of houses Five, Six and Seven. The bodies, burnt to a crisp inside five and seven are later identified as those of Mr Derek Mallory and Mrs Emily Mallory and their two children, Stephen and Josephine, Mr John Firmin and Mrs Letitia Firmin. No-one thinks to wonder that one of the houses was empty and that its owner never returned, the fact when noted in the police report is soon mislaid, the digital copy suffers from an error and the information is lost. The deaths are a tragedy, all agree, a terrible accident and a sign of the gas company's negligence. That the pathologist's report states that they cannot find a cause of death for the children is discounted as incompetence, if there is no cause of death and yet the body in question looks like something left on a barbecue for too long it is not hard to think of an explanation.

The blackened and burnt out husks of the three houses are quickly bought by the residents and knocked down, the gardens and now empty plots of land turned into a park for the children. Supposedly in memory of the inhabitants. It is unfortunate that no-one can remember their names long enough to go on a plaque, but then such is the way of life.

Number Four's own disaster is almost forgotten in the wake of the destruction of the other three houses. For a while they see Mr Vernon Dursley, newly promoted and even more affluent than before in his garden and house, but before long he moves away. Those of the neighbours more prone to gossip speculate that he has fled the memory of his wife and son, who some say he murdered, others, those with a kinder disposition suppose he must find it hard to live there with them gone. The delinquent nephew, Harry Potter is never mentioned. When Number Four is sold the residents of the area buy it and knock it down, adding the land to their growing park.

* * *

_Tuesday, the 6th of December, five fourty-three pm_

Harry sat in the Headmaster's study gazing blankly at the wall, Hermione and Ron sit on either side of him. Hermione wrapped her hand around his forearm, her thumb softly moving in small circles. Outside the windows the sky was a dark, yellowish purple, clouds stretching to the horizon, unbroken. A large snowflake fell, melting as it hit the glass, a trickle of water spilling down the windowpane. On the other side of the desk sit Dumbledore and the deputy headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, whose face is drawn and grey. The air was swimming with phoenix song, bright, clear and enlivening, yet it seemed to have no effect upon Harry, for once.

'Harry, I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but do you want leave to go to the funeral for your aunt and cousin? It is not fair that so much grief should come to one who has already suffered more than any should,' Dumbledore spoke gently, desperate to make this as easy as possible for the boy who he had already admitted to himself he saw very much as the grandson he would never have, could never have had indeed.

'Yes, sir, I would like to go. I never liked them, but I have a duty.'

Dumbledore did not bother to suggest that Harry should show more respect for the dead, what would have been the point? The dead in question had shown so very little for the living, who are much easier to hurt. Instead he merely nodded.

'Harry, you have been very withdrawn these last few days, is there something we should know? Professor Moody informed me that when he offered to let you grieve instead of train you tried to hex him, and tried harder in that session than ever before. I cannot fault greater dedication, but I worry about what such a change may cause you to do, not all are as hard to hex as Professor Moody,' Dumbledore said, attempting to prompt a response.

Harry looked straight at him for a second, his eyes cold, 'Professor, I have no proof, but I feel that Aunt Petunia's and Dudley's deaths are in some way connected to me. I can't allow people close to me to be hurt, I can't stop Hermione or Ron being around me, I probably wouldn't survive five minutes if they weren't, but I can try to be able to do my best to protect them,' Harry's voice was almost robotic as if he had been repeating this thought to himself again and again.

Dumbledore paused for a second, he had long avoided the moment at which he would have to tell Harry about the prophecy. He had been able to carry on dodging the issue because of Harry's youth, the fact that he deserved better than being the luckless pawn of Fate, and that unless the bloodwards fell Harry was safe. Even if Voldemort had returned he could not have reached Harry until the protection was no more. That protection was now gone, and with it, like so much dust in the wind his hopes for Harry's future had been blown away.

'"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:  
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"  
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay  
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare  
The lone and level sands stretch far away,' he murmured to himself, a wry smile twitching his lip.

'I'm sorry, Headmaster?' Harry asked, his expression back to that of the boy Dumbledore knew well. Perhaps there was still a chance to give Harry a little more time … _No_, thought Dumbledore,there was a time and place for hesitation and careful words, but this was not it.

'Nothing Harry, I was just reminded that great men can commit great foolishness. Harry, I have something of vital importance to tell you, and while I am sure you will want to tell your friends later, for now though we two must be alone. As your friends, I believe you can trust Miss Granger and Mr Weasley with this secret without fear, but I am afraid this will be easier for you if you are alone,' he said, his eyes closed to fight the feeling of weariness and defeat which was spreading through him.

'Don't worry Harry, we'll wait outside the gargoyle, won't we Ron?' Hermione said, briefly squeezing Harry's shoulder as she, McGonagall and Ron left the office.

Around Harry and Dumbledore the delicate silver instruments wound on their courses. The paintings of old headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts snoozed quietly, occasionally jerking awake in their frames as they almost fell out of the high-backed chairs in which they were seated.

The greatest wizard in the world raised his wand to his temple and drew forth a silvery thread. Walking over to a tall cabinet, covered in tiny runes, symbols and marks of power Dumbledore opened it and revealed a small, shallow, silver basin in which floated a silvery mist. Dropping the thread on the wand into the basin Dumbledore muttered a few words and stepped back. A small, ghostly figure rose up from the dish and in a guttural, voice like the sighing of a forge's bellows began to speak, its words hissing slightly as it spoke, 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches …'

* * *

**A/N: **Tell me if I was wrong, but I felt a) bringing the section with Bodmahl into the present tense made it feel slightly surreal, and b) by not extending into how she managed to make sure Dudley took an overdose it leant that section a greater impact than if it had been gone through in greater detail. That does sound awfully pretentious, what I mean is, did it work well? One reviewer noted things are a bit jumpy, having had a look over this I'd agree. I may try and go back over the earlier chapters at some point to work out the kinks in them (big or small as you choose), however, for now I'm mainly going to try and iron out problems in future chapters. The next one should be rather more stable, well depending on how you choose to look at the word 'stable'.


	9. Blood, Water and Shadows

**Disclaimer: **No man owns the world, but I don't even own this.

**A/N: **Read and enjoy, I am going back over the earlier chapters in little bits to improve them.

**Blood, Water and Shadows**

_By the heavy blue chain a faithful servant is held  
And before the spoils of Annwfn, bitterly _he_ sang _

The Spoils of Annfwn

_Saturday, the 10th of December_

It somehow came as a surprise to Harry that, despite the news that he was the 'Chosen Child of Chance and Fate' as Dumbledore had put it with an ironic smile, life was expected to continue as normal. Though he reflected, normal was largely a matter of perspective, he only regarded going to his last living relatives funeral a normal thing to do because he somehow could not actually really wrap his mind around the fact he would no longer have to be bullied by them, not that all considered that was necessarily a blessing. It was a universal law of deep and lasting magic that things came at a price, whether they be protection, power, or even love, it seemed that the cost of Harry's life was his happiness as a child.

Going to the funeral was, however, a great deal less normal than it had seemed as an idea. The chances of attending the funeral which marked the end of your family in its entirety, at least by blood (Harry considered Sirius, the Weasley's and in a peculiar way Hermione, as family more than he ever had these people who had only ever had a technical relationship to him), are fortunately not high, but nevertheless here Harry was. Uncle Vernon had tried his best to ensure that Harry would not be able to come, but despite his efforts Harry, accompanied by professors Flitwick and Dumbledore had ended up in the graveyard. His breath misted in front of his face, white in the chill mid-morning air of the churchyard. He was dressed in black, specially purchased for the occasion, unfortunately since the clothes had been purchased in Diagon Alley they more resembled the mourning attire of the late Victorian era rather than the sombre suit which Vernon wore, and unlike Harry Vernon's stomach strained against the shirt as if the buttons were to rip off at any second.

The feet of the dozen or so mourners who had arrived, mostly out of business politics to appear in Vernon's good books, crunched over the thin layer of icy snow as they walked towards the freshly dug grave, spiders webs of ice already crawling over the earth. A thin mist fanned out across the graveyard leaving tombstones and guardian or weeping angels as mere ghostly figures on the edge of sight. The church was old, it was not the one for the parish of St Stephen which watched over Little Whinging, but a much older building, small and crooked, its walls warped as if they had been shaped from dough rather than stone. It was the church where Petunia, and Lily Evans had been christened. The priest was an ancient Anglican vicar, his speech as slow and careful as his steps, white hair rose from his head in little tufts, like puffs of steam, his face was lined and wrinkled with kindness and at other times amusement.

The service was moving, the priest, the Reverend Thomas Thorogood spoke warmly of Petunia as a child, even then he had been the rector of the parish. His eulogy for Dudley with its common phrase, 'A life cut short', was not unusual save for the strength of the regret he conveyed. Save Vernon who delivered a short speech which held few personal details and said very little, there were no others who spoke, Dudley's friends were all for one reason or another unable to attend, even Piers Polkiss. At last, as first Dudley's coffin and then Petunias' was lowered into the grave the vicar said the final words, quiet and peaceful beneath the shadow of yew trees and church, 'Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord maketh his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her and give her peace. Amen.'

The mourners filed away one by one, with a handshake and a word or two of condolence leaving Vernon standing by the graves of his wife and son. Aunt Marge was the last to leave, giving her brother a hefty pat on the back, offering him a room if he wanted company and shooting a disgusted glare at Harry. Soon only Vernon, Harry remained, the wizards standing on either side of Harry like strange guardian angels, one tall, one short. Harry paused for a second, glancing at the wooden crosses which would in time be replaced by tombstones,

_Petunia Dursley_

_1959-1994_

_A loving wife and mother._

_A good name is better than fine perfume, and the day of death better than the day of birth._

Beside it Dudley's cross was slightly smaller, a bronze plaque stood out on dark wood:

_Dudley Dursley_

_1980-1994_

_He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High  
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty._

Harry turned to look at Uncle Vernon, and coughed politely. For once Harry's hatred and bitterness against the large, beefy, man was gone. Vernon's hair had lost what had remained of its colour in the weeks since Harry had seen him and his skin hung from him in loose folds, leaving his face with the look of a bloodhound. The moustache across his upper lip was still thick, but it now its colour resembled off cream. At Harry's cough he turned around slowly, his face tight beneath the drooping skin.

'Boy,' he snarled, his voice dripping venom, 'what are _you_ doing here?'

'I came to say goodbye, to all of you.'

'Good riddance, to you, your unnaturalness did this! They would have hated having your _stain _on this, even here you dare to pollute them with your presence,' Vernon's beady eyes were screwed up into tiny pinpricks of darkness in the pick rolls of his face.

'Leave it, I'm not living with you any more. I don't need to listen you, but then I never really did,' replied Harry coolly, he was sad, no that was not right, he regretted the fact that Petunia and Dudley were dead, but there was no reason to let this man continue to shout at him. This little man who could not see past his bigotry, even in grief to someone who might have tried to be kind.

'I should have beaten you more Boy, you'll come to a sticky end, mark my words …'

A gust of wind blew a few flakes of snow from the gravestones nearby.

'… just like your no-good lazy father, and that trollop of a mother of yours,' Vernon sneered as he stepped forward, seemingly forgetting they were not alone as he raised his hand to strike Harry The air crackled, and the air shimmered as if reality was bending, Vernon's sneer fell from his face, replaced by a look of terror and hatred and then he lunged towards Harry, apparently under the impression that attacking him would stop whatever magic was occurring.

Albus Dumbledore stepped in front of Harry, and now it was obvious where the magic was coming from. He stood, tall and terrible, clothed in the black of a moonless night, his beard a burning silver against the robe, his wand was in his hand, and power radiated from him. Snow swirled in eddies at his feet and the trees and stones rang with his words. Vernon quailed before him, stepping backwards and tripping over a solid granite tombstone to lie shivering on the ground.

'You dare to threaten to harm a child, and not only a child, but the last link with your wife and son? You will never touch this boy again, Vernon Dursley. Indeed, I lay this doom upon you, never again will you feel the touch of man, woman or child, you will go through life alone until your heart is healed through penance or it is devoured by the blackness within.'

A white fire flashed from Dumbledore's wand and then the magic was gone. The churchyard was still, and only two old men and a boy stood looking at Vernon as he lay on the ground. He scrambled to his feet and shaking his fist at Harry strode off through the churchyard, his head bent so that only the top of his hair could be seen above his shoulders. Harry looked after him, rage seething just below the surface, had Dumbledore not intervened he did not know what might have happened, his control over his emotions was barely enough to prevent dark dreams as he slept, and often he still wore the ring to help.

'I am sorry Harry, I should not have severed the last ties you might have had with Mr Dursley,' said Dumbledore apologetically after a time, as he stood looking sorrowfully down at Petunia's grave. 'You know, when Lily received her letter Petunia sent one to me asking if I would let her attend Hogwarts too. Telling her that she was not and never would be a witch was one of the saddest tasks I have ever undertaken, very few children suffer that, I am not surprised she was jealous. When I asked her to take you in I fear I made matters worse by emphasising how important it was that you should be safe, I suspect made her feel that just as she had felt inferior to Lily, I was now saying that her own son was inferior to you …'

'I don't think it made that much of a difference, sir,' said Harry, glancing at his teacher.

Dumbledore shrugged, his eyes still fixed upon the grave. Among the trees at the edge of the churchyard, just beyond a broken down stretch of dry-stone wall prowled the familiar shape of a large, black dog. Shaking himself from his memories Dumbledore looked up and smiled faintly, 'Filius, I believe that Harry may want to stay here a while longer. There is no particular point in both of us staying, I alone will be guard enough I am sure. Why don't you go back to Hogwarts? I must confess I find it rather chilly out here myself,' he said smiling at Flitwick.

With a curt nod, a word of thanks to Dumbledore and a goodbye to Harry, Flitwick was gone, vanishing with a sound like the snap of a breaking branch. The dog padded over, its paws leaving wide imprints in the crust of snow, its fur was tangled with hoarfrost, till it stood silently beside Harry, giving the support he needed most, that of silent companionship and a listening ear.

Dumbledore walked away to the edge of the churchyard, looking out down the narrow street which led to the main part of the town over the lychgate. He studied the trees which lined the road, their branches bare and hazy in the faint mist, doing his best not to hear Harry's words to his godfather.

'I know that this is not my fault, I don't think it was anyone's fault. Or at least not anyone on our side. But I can feel it Sirius, something isn't right. If they died it was not an accident, and if it wasn't an accident can I put my trust in the protections of others? Hogwarts isn't safe any more, you said, and if even there isn't safe then what can we do?' Harry's words ached with the need to understand, the need to act and not sit helplessly by as the storm approached.

'I need more help Sirius, there's a sensation as if danger's coiling its noose around my neck. Cedric apparently heard from Fleur something about the next task, but I'm beginning to wonder if whoever put me into the Tournament even meant to kill me with it. The palug was close I'll admit, but even so, you'd have to be pretty brazen to try it in front of the whole school …

'Still things aren't all bad, Hermione seems happy, hell, I'm happy, happier than ever. I guess that's why I'm worried, it just doesn't seem right for life to be going so well. Maybe I'm just paranoid, thinking of which Moody is helping Hermione with a bit of magic, apparently she's inventing something entirely new, she says she won't tell me what it is though. I don't see enough of you, you know, but next week is a Hogsmeade weekend, do you want to meet up then?' The dog nodded solemnly, shifting slightly on the snow, as its breath misted in the air. Silence rested in the air.

'Professor, may I do magic here?' Harry asked suddenly, startling Dumbledore.

'Yes, there is no-one around to see. In my company your own magical signature, strong though it is for one of your years, should be masked,' he replied, wondering what Harry had in mind. He did not turn to look though, valuing the boy's privacy too much. He thought again of the past, the choices he had made, it might have been safe to leave Harry in the company of those who might have cared for him more, but though poorly treated he was alive … Dumbledore sighed, the past could not be undone, even time-turners only caused the course of events which would already have occurred.

There was a soft muttering in which Dumbledore heard the words, '_Verto lilium_'. A few seconds later Harry was standing beside him, his wand tucked back into the pocket of his long, black, coat. The dog was gone, the snow in the churchyard clear of paw prints.

'_Portus,_' Dumbledore said, pointing his wand at a sprig of holly he had plucked, it glowed blue for a moment and then Harry and Dumbledore closed their gloved hands around it. There was a whirl of light in the air under the roof of the lychgate's porch and a second later the gate was swinging closed on its own.

On the graves of Petunia and Dudley Dursley lay two long, white, lilies among the other flowers and tokens of affection or diplomacy.

* * *

_Thursday, the 8th of December_

The church was quiet as Bodmahl entered it, the air damp and cold with Winter's touch, the stones were faintly green. A few candles burnt in one corner, slowly sputtering out. Jonathan Holland sat in the front pew looking up at the Jack O'Greens which peeped from between curling branches of ivy on the pillars. There were only a couple of tourists examining a carved angel wearing a blindfold in one corner, otherwise the building was empty.

'I never do understand why you like to meet in places like this,' Bodmahl said as she slid onto the seat beside him.

'I enjoy the atmosphere, the primal reek of worship and adoration. It's almost like food,' he replied, not glancing at her. 'And it amuses me, did I ever tell you about that trip I took to Ireland? I told someone that once people thought I was Lucifer. I think she believed me,' he stopped, considering the matter, 'I'm almost sorry I lied.'

'Well, I find it creepy. These places are oppressive, I never feel that I belong, its as if everything is screaming at me to be gone!' She answered, her shoulders hunched as she rubbed her gloved hands together. 'Why did you take so long to contact me?'

'Shush. I was busy. You managed to break the wards then?' He closed his eyes, folding his hands in his lap.

'Would I be here if I hadn't?' The question gained no response. 'Yes, I did it, both the boy and his mother are dead. What now?'

There was still no answer, they sat there for a time, unmoving, the thick stone walls slowly heating up as the sun shone down upon them. Rainbows of colour from the stained glass moved over the floor gradually. Bodmahl fidgeted slightly, shifting in her seat. The air around them warmed, though whether it was by some subtle spell she had not noticed or that the church had turned on its heating she did not know. Either way it was welcome and by slow degrees she found her eyes closing, slipping further and further towards sleep.

Around them visitors to the church, worshippers and tourists alike passed like shadows, few noticing the robed man and woman in the gathering gloom of the church as the short day sped by. Eventually as the lights flickered on leaving the church in a warm glow Jonathan shook himself out of his reverie and stood, gently tapping Bodmahl on the cheek he woke her and together they passed out from under the shelter of the church. Outside rain fell, quickly soaking clothes and chilling to the bone, cars drove by, sending up spray, their headlights glaring.

'We cannot break their wards, nor drive them out, so we must wait until the child is beyond the protection of the castle. Then I will strike, though not alone I think. There is a friend here, in Eboracum* who I think may help me, if he has had his fill for the night.'

'What shall I do?' Bodmahl asked, her teeth chattering as they walked.

'Nothing, my dear, you need to rest, you have done quite enough for now. I have my own task ahead of me, one which should prove most entertaining. However, after you have rested it would be most useful if you could find a way to retrieving the Cauldron of Annfwn, we will need it to release the sleeping king.'

Bodmahl sighed, he had always had a tendency to believe unconditionally in her capabilities, almost as great a belief as he had in his own. Still there was little point in arguing about the practicality of her trying to regain the Cauldron since if she objected he would most likely claim that task as his own too, and try to complete it immediately after whatever he intended to do to capture the Potter boy.

'Now, do you feel like a cup of coffee? I could kill for one,' he said pointing to a nearby Starbucks, yellow light spilling from the windows.

* * *

_Saturday, the 17th of December_

The road to Hogsmeade from Hogwarts is a lonely one. No houses stand along it and unless you walk that way with the first wave of students on the visits then it is unlikely that you will meet a soul. The woods are silent, dark and deep to one side, the centaurs do not venture this close to the edge unless pressed to, but still there is no birdsong. Blue-green pine trees lower over the yellow clay and brown mud of the track, though their leaves are almost black in winter.

Some people say they have seen a figure among those trees in the past, and there are always stories of children, stragglers from the main party who have been lured into the trees. When they say that no child has died at Hogwarts in fifty years they mean that no child has died within the grounds. Most pureblood children are warned and warned often from an early age not to go beneath the shadows of the trees, and so it is normally muggle-borns who vanish, their disappearances creating little notice in English wizarding high-society. It is only the parents who are left, hollow and shrunken by their loss, comforted by awkward words and condolences delivered to them by the child's head of house. Dumbledore's tenure has seen fewer disappearances than many, but still they do happen.

Harry was walking into Hogsmeade, arm in arm with Hermione; Ron and, to Harry's surprise, Luna were walking a short way before them. According to Hermione, Ron and Luna despite their differences had grown closer during Harry and Ron's estrangement. Ginny was staying at the castle, she had declared that she did not feel well enough to come, her glare silencing any questions from Ron in particular.

His feet splashed through the mud which was already coating his trouser cuffs. A fog was beginning to rise, white and soft from the Forbidden forest, curling between the trees. He stumbled slightly and Hermione's arm caught him, she pulled him straight, as a soft grin of amusement spread over her face.

'Come on silly, we won't have any time if you keep dawdling like this,' she said, brushing a particularly recalcitrant strand of her already wild hair away from her mouth with her free hand.

'Meanie,' he pouted, 'is this the only reason you saved me from the mud? Just so you could blame me for slowing us down?'

'Save you from the mud? I'd say I saved the mud from you, it isn't me who is wearing more mud than cloth.'

She had a point Harry thought, somehow she was managing to remain immaculately clean with hardly a spot of mud on even her shoes as they walked along. He suspected that she was using magic, but decided not to ask, it would be more satisfying if he could work it out and use it too.

Hermione had recently turned up in her research a little known magical method to detect the elements of magic in an area, the problem being that it required either a great deal of concentration, or a simply incredible amount of practice. One of the main advantages of the method was that if mastered it greatly helped the practitioner in learning unfamiliar magic, if one was a true master then it was possible to effectively absorb the method required to cast the spell.

Natural masters were virtually unheard of, the last one known without a doubt was Merlin, since him only one Romanian wizard lord in the fifteenth century and, the book speculated, Albus Dumbledore and Lord Voldemort might have had a natural talent for it. Modern cursebreakers employed a spell which had similar effects in that it allowed one to actually view the magic, and if the caster was skilled enough actually manipulate the threads of magic. Harry gave up on it however, trying to even see the threads took far too much concentration for a beginner and if he was not careful he would probably end up walking into trees. Instead he decided to simply enjoy the walk, working out the spell could wait until the Three Broomsticks.

Looking around Harry made out Hagrid not far ahead, it seemed he was talking to Ron and Luna who had stopped to talk to him. Just at the edge of sight, which because of the thickening fog was closer than usual, the lights of Hogsmeade were twinkling. There was a quiet bark just a little way behind him and glancing over his shoulder he saw Padfoot, Sirius' animagus form, padding up behind Hermione and himself.

Then a howl like the scream of a braking train tore through the moist, fog filled air. From the tree line came a tall, thin man dressed in a robe the colour of marshlands, and beside him walked a dog the size of a large calf, its fur was long and either black or a green so dark that Harry could not tell the difference.

'Who are you?' Harry called, though his heart felt as if it had just been surrounded by ice.

'I am the Pale Man, I am Jonathan Holland. I have come for you, Harry Potter,' the man jerked his head and the gigantic hound beside him began to run forwards. Burning eyes blazed through the fog as it bounded towards Harry, and the Pale Man followed hot on its heels. Hagrid saw the creature and came running, his massive feet pounding the ground. Ron whipped round, the training with Harry and Hermione serving him well as he, Harry and Hermione all drew their wands.

Hagrid slammed into the barghest, the impact sending both of them flying, as through the centre of the crash Jonathan Holland strode onwards. Harry sliced his wand in a diagonal slash, green flames erupting from the tip, but with a swift gesture the Pale Man raised the mud in front of himself into a pouring shield of earth and water, quenching the fire. Hermione, stood straight backed and side on to present a harder target as she unleashed a pulsating wave of energy, blistering the air as it passed. Jonathan, sidestepped neatly, the blast ripping a six inch hole through a nearby pine, splinters exploding outwards.

The barghest reared, knocking Hagrid aside as if he were no more than a child, before turning on Padfoot, who had silently approached from behind. Sirius' animagus form was no small beast, but against the barghest he was little more than a rat to a terrier.

Jonathan twisted his hand, the earth came alive, rooting Harry, Hermione and Luna to the spot, Ron leapt as he began to feel the earth trying to grab him, '_Diffindo_!' He yelled, the spell shattering the fragile tendril which had tried to hold him.

As Ron struggled to his feet Harry began to cry out spell after spell, cutters, stunners, hexes pounded through the air turning his vision a dizzying array of colours. Hermione beside him worked desperately to break the charm that held their feet imprisoned and was slowly spreading up their legs. Then it was all a blur. Ron shouted, as Padfoot was picked up and shaken like a rag doll by the barghest before being hurled against a tree. The earth which had now risen to enclose Hermione's thighs shattered and crumbled into dust, but it was too late. Jonathan had reached Harry, his hand clamped down on the boy's shoulder and with a jolt which ripped through the air like a punch Harry and the Pale Man were gone.

For a second those who were left stood dazed, Hagrid, who had been pulling himself up stopped, collapsing as if his legs had been cut from beneath him. Luna oblivious to all else rushed to Ron, who was frozen in shock. Padfoot, blood seeping out from where a rib poked through his flank whined. The barghest made a noise which was almost a chuckle, horrible and low in its throat as it loped towards Hermione. The girl stood there defenceless, tears streaming down her cheeks, looking at the spot where Harry had vanished.

Then with a scream of fury she whirled to face the gigantic hound. Narrowing her eyes she raised her wand, and around her the wind rose, her hair fanning out and floating. The barghest paused for a second, lifting a paw as if to step backwards, but only for a second. The girl in front of it was no more than a child, easy prey. It leapt. A river of white fire burst from Hermione's wand, as she stood silently radiating fury, the fire struck the barghest in the centre of its forehead between the glowing, red, eyes, and then the air exploded.

When Dumbledore and McGonagall, had seen the fog roll out of the wood around Harry and his friends, and heard the cry of the barghest, the black shuck, the demon hound. When they arrived Hermione was covered in scratches and bruises, but otherwise unharmed as she tended to Padfoot's ribs, her brows knotted in concentration as she forced magic into the wound. Ron and Luna were trying to calm Hagrid who looked as if he wanted to rip something limb from limb. There was no sign of the barghest, however, save for a crater in the centre of the road .

'Miss Granger, what happened here? Where is Mr Potter? I heard the cry of one of the cu sith, where is it?' McGonagall asked, her accent stronger than ever as worry overcame her normally reserved disposition.

'It died,' Hermioine paused and then looked up at them, her eyes dry and hard, 'I don't know where Harry is, but I think I know who can tell us.'

* * *

The cave was dark, only a faint blue light shone from the chains which bound the boy to the stone chair in the centre of the room. Tall stone statues of nine women towered around the throne like chair. Across the floor stretched a maze of tiny gutters and troughs, all expanding in a web from the stone chair and two small ducts of silver which ran from just below Harry's palms.

Blood dripped slowly onto the silver, spreading along the network of channels, bit by bit. Harry awoke, his neck ached from lolling forward onto his chest, which like his wrists and legs was bound to the chair by blue-grey chains. Beyond the chains it was silent, save for the drip, drip of water far off. The chilly air was stale, but not either unwholesome or unbearable. Harry waited, no-one came, neither jailer, nor rescuer. He tried to cry out, but he could make no noise. Finally after what might have been hours, or might have been minutes a voice began to sing close by. It was a male voice low and beautiful, the cave hummed with the tune and the words shook the silence of the place into ruins for a time:

_Then rose the King and moved his host by night_

_And ever pushed Sir Mordred, league by league,_

_Back to the sunset bound of Lyonesse-_

_A land of old upheaven from the abyss_

_By fire, to sink into the abyss again;_

_Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,_

_And the long mountains ended in a coast_

_Of ever-shifting sand, and far away_

_The phantom circle of a moaning sea._

'Tennyson wrote that, you know,' said the voice once he had finished. 'He was a great friend of mine once. I told him the story of the battle, the end of Arthur, and Mordred, the true story, not the one remembered now. He decided to honour those loses, for there were heroes on both sides, but he could not bring himself to tell the truth.'

'What truth?' Harry asked despite himself, surprised to find he could talk again.

'The truth of the King Under the Hill, the king so many believe must be Arthur,' replied the voice, almost sadly.

'Who are you?'

'I've already told you that. I am the servant of the Lord of Mists.'

'What are you then?' The question echoed in the silence and for a time Harry thought he must have been left alone again.

Then the voice spoke into his ear, more a hiss than words, sending a shiver down his spine. 'I am a lord of the Sidhe. I am a wanderer in a strange land, I am cursed, I am forsaken. I am free and I am bound …' The speaker cut off and Harry was alone again in the darkness.

He screamed.

* * *

*The Latin name for York.

**A/N: **There has to be some good reason for how much Dumbledore goes on about the power of love, in this case that it can drive you to feats of quite extraordinary magic. This is not something which will reoccur often, Hermione is a very skilled witch, but she has still not reached a level where she can easily wield such powers. Even if she or Harry were able to direct them with any certainty wizards like Voldemort would still probably be able to deflect them unless severely weakened, in this case though she was facing a creature of magic rather than a creature which can use magic.

I've used quite a lot of different names for the same creature in this chapter, the hound is mainly based on barghests and the black shuck, though the description is more appropriate for the cu sith (fairy hound).

Harry screaming at the end there is more a scream of anger and futility than anything else, there is nothing else he can do, so far.

The idea of the magical method is based on an idea of being able to absorb magic created by jbern, and the concept of 'mage sight' as some stories have it.


	10. Patience

**Disclaimer: **Wouldn't it be incredible if I had suddenly turned into J. K. Rowling? Just let me get my hands on some polyjuice … erm, I mean that I would never try to claim ownership of Harry Potter and all her other works and ideas.

At least not until I can get away with it.

**A/N:** Sorry for taking so long to update, a very busy term at university. Hopefully you will enjoy the update.

**Patience**

_I had a dream, which was not all a dream.  
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars  
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,  
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth  
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air _

Lord Byron, Darkness

_The Hollow Hill: 21st of December_

Water dripped slowly in the darkness, tiny hammer strokes on the wet rock. Harry sat silently, he had long ago cried himself hoarse. Darkness surrounded him, enclosed him, he felt that he was the darkness, stretching out everywhere and yet intangible.

Time flickered by. Harry had had many dreams, at least he knew he had thought they were dreams when they had begun. Since he had been under the hill his perception of what might be real and what was not had changed, he was no longer sure of anything, even his own flesh felt like a limp shell, the air felt like thin fabric, if he could just move he might have torn a doorway to … to where he had no idea, somewhere else, that was all that mattered.

He closed his eyes, when he opened them he was no longer in the cave it was Hogwarts in the spring. Hermione and Ron were sitting under the trees by the lake, Hermione was holding a large book bound in red leather with silver clasps. They looked up at him and smiled, then they were gone Hogwarts stood, above a lake boiled dry, the towers broken and the long grass gone replaced by ash blowing on the wind. Dreams flew by, he thought saw a clock, pulsing green numbers flickering, yet it did not measure time as it should be measured, the numbers jumped about changing without rhyme or reason. Time was broken. Harry laughed, a shuddering chuckle.

'Hello again, time for you to eat,' the voice was soft, the breath from it brushing his ear. A hand held his head back and a thin gruel was poured into his mouth. He wondered about trying to choke on it, but there did not seem a great deal of point, he had already tried that when they had given him solid food, all it meant was that there was no more solid food, even so he spluttered. A dribble of water followed, it was thick and brackish, foul tasting, but as it trickled over his parched it seemed like nectar or ambrosia.

'How are you holding up there?' Asked the man who had called himself Jonathan when Harry had asked. 'Do you want to try something … well something nice to eat?'

A pale hand waved in the chain's faint light and before the rocky throne a table laden with fruit appeared. Succulent, almost luminescent the sight made Harry's mouth water. A bushel of apples as red as rubies lay on a golden platter barely a foot from his hand.

'Would you like an apple? Or maybe a pomegranate?' Jonathan suggested, reaching for a fruit mottled red and yellow which lay across the table. With a swift movement he drew a sharp knife and split it open, revealing the core, filled with tiny, jewel like, seeds. The sweet, bitter scent wafted towards Harry. Pulling away some of the creamy pith Jonathan held forth a few of the seeds.

'Just say that you want them and they are yours. All you have to do is take them …'

Harry opened his mouth to ask for them, his hand already stretching forward, but something stuck inside him; a tiny part of his mind, which said, _no_. There was something wrong with this, why would his captor offer it, and what was it about pomegranates, if only he could remember. It was something to do with Hermione, and as his mind flickered to her his mind cleared the memory returning in a flood.

_Hermione was sitting on the floor of the common room reading as snows floated down against the windows, Harry peered over her shoulder at the book, the words _Christine Rossetti _were printed clearly at the top of the page and below a title: _The Goblin Market_, strode across the yellow paper. _

_ 'What's that?' Harry asked as his hand softly stroked his girlfriend's bushy, brown, hair._

_ 'Just a poem, I've always liked it, but Professor Morgan mentioned something about magical bindings the other day and it reminded me of this look,' her finger traced across the finger as she spoke them softly._

_'**We must not look at goblin men,**_

_**We must not buy their fruits,**_

_**Who knows on what soil they fed their hungry thirsty roots?**'_

_ Harry shivered as she finished, the words sending a chill through him, their ringing quality at odds with the softly carpeted room._

_ 'It made me wonder if bindings could be placed on food, Rossetti was a muggle, but her brother Dante Rossetti was a muggle-born and talked to her a lot about magic. It seems she adapted parts of her poem from an old rhyme magical children were taught, dating back who knows how long, eating a substance is one of the ways that one person might be subjugated by another.'_

_ 'Wouldn't that mean that a wizard like Voldemort could just sneak a spell onto the food in Hogwarts and then control everyone?' He asked leaning back into the squidgy sofa, his eyes half closing as the warmth from the fire soaked through him._

_ 'No, it seems you have to have a choice, it won't work if you're forced to eat or under certain forms of duress. You can be placed in a situation in which you'll starve or eat, but you must know who it is that the food comes from and you have to want to eat the food, to ask for it even. Take for instance the story of Persephone …'_

Harry's memory of the warm common room faded. The fruit was still being held before him, but where its scent had seemed enticing it was now sickly as if the sweetness was covering something rotten. The firm, red flesh of the apples looked as if worms and grubs squirmed under the skin. Harry shook his head, and spoke a word hardly more than a breath, 'No.'

Jonathan's face twisted in a snarl and he threw the pomegranate to the floor, it exploded into a heap of writhing insects and the light was gone.

Harry waited in silence. Water dripped slowly. Darkness pressed in. Now though Harry concentrated, his mind filled with the thought of Hermione and his friends, he was silent. The light from the chains danced in green eyes.

* * *

_Hogwarts: 17th of December, the day of Harry's capture_

Dumbledore strode through the corridors of the castle, walls turning into doors before him, staircases materialising to let the Headmaster pass. Hermione hurried after him, Ron, Hagrid and Luna were being taken to the hospital wing by Professor McGonagall. The air vibrated with the magic of Hogwarts as it awoke to the Headmaster's wishes.

They came to a stout wooden door, fixed firmly in the stone. Dumbledore continued without pause walking through it as though it were water, the wood flowing back into place as he vanished within. Hesitating for a second Hermione followed suit, closing her eyes as she did so, walking through the door felt as if she were brushing her face against wet leaves. Then she was through and blinking in the light of the thin, winter, sun she could see Professor Morgan sitting at ease behind her desk.

'To what do I owe the honour of this visit, Headmaster? Miss Granger?' She asked, eyes sparkling, though whether it was with amusement Hermione could not tell.

'Professor Morgan,' began Dumbledore, his tone normally calm and placating tones firm and decisive, 'a student has just been abducted by an unknown person, who named himself as "the Pale Man" or "Jonathan Holland". Miss Granger feels that you may have some information that might help us apprehend this person, apparently he was mentioned in one of your first classes.'

'Yes, I might have such information,' she scraped at chipped nail varnish on her fingernails, avoiding Dumbledore's gaze, 'I presume the student abducted was Harry Potter?'

'Yes, please, do you know where he is?' Hermione asked pleadingly.

'No, or at least, I know a probability, though not a certainty.'

'Professor Morgan, it is essential that you tell us …' Dumbledore began, around them Hermione could feel the air beginning to thrum.

'I will tell you, but information, like all things, comes at a price. Are you willing to hear my terms?'

Hermione looked at her in shock, that a teacher would demand payment in order to protect or help a student was an perversion of the natural order. Hermione had always relied on teachers as bastions of moral strength ever since her first teacher in primary school had come down on the children who had bullied her.

Dumbledore on the other hand merely sighed, 'What price do you ask?'

'I want the second of the Deathly Hallows: the Resurrection Stone.'

'Anna, I must warn you that the cost of possessing that particular item is undoubtedly higher than the rewards. To seek to humiliate Death is dangerous ….'

'Headmaster, for all your knowledge you really don't have a clue what that stone could do in the right hands, and no I have no interest in an army of _inferi_, that type of grandstanding has never been my style. Where is the pleasure in having an army of the dead fight for you I ask? Can a corpse love? That is my price, nothing less, nothing more. I could ask for the cloak or the wand, I _know _you know where both of those are, but in this case I have no need of them.'

'I will require your word on this, an oath not to use it for any purpose that might harm others. _ If _I can procure it for you.'

'I'm sorry to interrupt, Professor, but what are the Deathly Hallows, and what is the Resurrection Stone?' Hermione said, trying to work out what exactly Professor Morgan must be asking Dumbledore for that he would try to persuade her that it was a bad idea.

It was, however, Professor Morgan who answered, 'The Deathly Hallows are three great magical items which according to legend were gifted to three brothers by Death himself. They were, however, deceived, or at least two of them were for the gifts were designed to bring them to their doom so that he might claim them for his own in revenge for the fact they had thwarted him with their magic. The legend is not entirely correct, in reality they stole the items from a powerful being who hunted them down one by one,' she turned to Dumbledore, 'if my investigations have been accurate the being from whom they obtained these items was none other than the Pale Man. If you bring me the Resurrection Stone I can locate him with it, the others would not work for such magic, the cloak hides, it does not seek, the wand is cursed and I will not touch it. If you want Potter back then you must bring me the second Hallow.'

'How have you come to have such lore on the subject?' Dumbledore questioned, his piercing, blue, eyes staring at Professor Morgan as if he were trying to look inside her mind for the answer.

'I have been around a lot, and war and love are specialities of mine, the first and second of the Hallows have called to me since they were made.'

Hermione blinked, 'How old are …'

'As old as my tongue and a little bit older than my teeth,' came the pre-emptive reply, 'I'm sorry dear, but there are somethings that one just doesn't let out.'

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a second, and then opening them he turned to the door gesturing for Hermione to follow, 'I will see what I can do Anna, but may I request that you think it over, from your own account you are risking the wrath of this "Pale Man" if you possess the Stone.'

'I don't think I'll have to worry about him coming after me, not when the children of the prophecy are come,' her words were soft, almost mocking as they left the room.

* * *

It was the first time that Hermione had been inside Dumbledore's office alone, save for the headmaster, and looking around the room with its walls covered in bookcases and arcane objects she half wished that she had done something which had warranted it before. She could almost literally hear the books calling out for her to read them, a couple on a nearby bookshelf had caught her eye, _The Shivering Trees: Magic of the Ancient Forests_, or on another shelf,_ A Hundred Years of Darkness_ by Mr G. Norrell. Her fingers twitched in her lap as she imagined turning the aged vellum.

Dumbledore stood gazing into a basin like object in one corner, silvery light illuminating his face. Fawkes' perch was empty the blazing phoenix elsewhere for the time being. On the desk in front of her pale, grey, ashes from Fawkes' last burning lay smoothed out in an inch thick layer across the dark wood. A series of runes were drawn in the ashes, circles within circles, overlapping, interweaving, layer upon layer, Old Norse, Anglo-Saxon, Egyptian and Mayan hieroglyphs, Chinese characters, Sanskrit, others which Hermione did not recognise, all bound together around a single symbol, a single line across a circle, enclosed by a triangle.

'What exactly are we doing, sir?' She asked, eyeing the runes warily, whenever she glanced away they seemed to dance and move, though never when she was looking.

'A very simple ritual. Since our attempts to locate Harry through similar rituals have failed I am trying to locate either the Resurrection Stone or someone who can tell us where it lies,' Dumbledore replied, his brow furrowed in concentration as he drew another silvery thread from his head to the already brimful bowl.

'Any success? Is there anything I can do?'

'I fear not, Miss Granger, all the signs are indicating that I should know, or that I have the information easily accessible. Hence the reason I am using this pensive, it may well be able to locate the memory we need where I cannot.

'All you can do is concentrate on your desire to find Harry, wherever he may be, that is the element of the spell which has most chance of succeeding. Magic generally depends upon the intelligence and practice of its wielder. However, the power of the oldest magic is often based on emotion it is generally much stronger than kinds, it is the reason that the killing curse is unstoppable, that Harry is so adept at casting a patronus able to drive off hundreds of dementors, and the source of the only possible protection against the killing curse … Harry, intelligent though he is could never measure up to you for instance without the power of his love to give him the necessary power. This spell is much closer to the old magic than most of what we do now and it is probably the weakness in whatever magic guards the Resurrection Stone.'

Hermione sat back in the chair, biting the inside of her cheek as she wondered where Harry was and whether they could find him. Dumbledore closed the cupboard in which the basin lay and walked back to his own seat, adding a few runes into the ash with the tip of his wand.

'I am afraid, Miss Granger, that we are making very slow progress, the runes tell me that whatever spell it is is weakening, but it may be sometime before it snaps. I must think and try to find a way around this. For now though I advise you to go to bed. It has been a long day and we have spent many hours in this pursuit. If I make any progress I will send for you.'

'Sir, could I visit the hospital wing to check if everyone else is well? I can't help but worry …'

Dumbledore smiled, a familiar twinkle in his eye, 'Yes, of course, Miss Granger, I am sure they would be delighted to receive a visit from you. May I advise you not to mention the conversations you have witnessed today beyond the fact that you and I were investigating solutions to the conundrum of where Harry is? I suppose that I ought to arrange for occlumancy lessons for you too … Severus really is going to hate the thought of two students who can hide the truth running around school, especially you two.'

'Yes, Professor, can I just ask though, who exactly is Professor Morgan? I looked her up in the roll of magical children born in Ireland, I even went back eighty years, and she can't be more than thirty, but there was no mention of her. I even checked whether any of the girl children mentioned changed their names, they didn't.'

'And when did you discover this Miss Granger?'

'Near the beginning of term, I was wondering what kind of teacher we could expect and I was just trying to find any record of her.'

'Ah, well, Professor Morgan, is … she is something of an anomaly. I do not know precisely what she is myself, though I suspect that she is a great deal more than she seems. I will tell you that one of her conditions for teaching here was that there should be accommodation provided for her two sisters along with her, yet I do not think that anyone has ever seen them and even the house-elves only deliver food for only one, yet collect clothes for three, make three beds and say that they have heard three voices. I think if we are to receive answers we should wait. Now, it is getting late, perhaps you should run along?'

The polite dismissal was not lost on Hermione and she left the office, the door sealing with a click behind her. Dumbledore continued to trace runes in the ashes, but it seemed that whatever they told him was not making sense to him as he periodically waved his wand smoothing them out again before beginning once more. A house-elf appeared carrying a small hot water bottle and a cup of hot chocolate, thanking the bobbing creature Dumbledore sipped at the hot chocolate as he continued to work, occasionally scribbling notes onto a scrap piece of parchment. The clock in the corner of his room ticked onwards, slowly trickling past midnight and into the witching hour.

* * *

_The Hollow Hill: 25th of December 1994_

'You know I really don't like doing this?' Jonathan remarked to Harry as he sat beside the boy in the damp cave watching the trickles of blood seep through the network of channels towards the outer edge of the vast circle. 'I'd much rather be doing something fun, but I made a mistake a long time ago,' he gave a bark which might have been a laugh, 'I made a promise and you can't break your promises,' he sighed.

'Why won't you let me go?' The boy asked, his voice raw and scratchy like a needle on a record.

'Well, honestly I think it is quite obvious, I need your blood. I need you to break the spells. You ought to remember that. Anyway you really wouldn't want to be let go, once all this is done it really isn't going to be pretty, not once the Lord of Mists is free.'

'I think I deal with it not being that pretty. Are you just going to kill me then? Why not do it now and get it done with, surely I've got enough blood to finish this,' Harry waved his fingers to the tracery of interweaving carvings through which his blood flowed.

'Your ancestor was very irritating, when the spell here was laid in place she made sure it would take a long time, and you have to be alive through all of that. Honestly I think she must have been a sadist.'

'My ancestor?'

'Nimue, pretty girl, long, long black hair and eyes as grey as the sea …' Jonathan's voice trailed off and he stared into space. Harry waited patiently, it was not that he was fond of his captor, it was that he was the closest thing to company which Harry had, and by and large he had to admit that Jonathan was not actually that bad.

_ Apart from that whole kidnapping thing_, part of him thought. If a thought had a face it would have been smirking, probably a Slytherin, observed Harry moodily.

_ Oh shut up it really doesn't do to whine. We ought to make the best of a bad job_, another part replied, a part which Harry instantly labelled as the part of him which might prompt some people to start singing kumbaya while sitting in a sinking ship riddled with as many holes as a Swiss cheese rather than actually trying to do anything useful.

_ I bet you were sorted into Hufflepuff_, he replied bitterly.

_Come on, that isn't very kind at all, _yet another part interrupted, _Hufflepuff's might be loyal but even they would commit murder to rid themselves of someone like that. _Ravenclaw? Harry suggested to himself tentatively. No, he thought not. Probably just mean Harry he decided.

_ You need to relax and just go with the flow, it'll all turn out all right in the end_, Kumbaya-Harry stated. The other parts of Harry started pulling straws to see who would get to roast him alive.

Jonathan stood and walked away, as the boy lost what sanity he had left the fun in talking to him grew less and less, unlike some of his kin Jonathan had never found the mad particularly fascinating. What was so interesting about one lunatic amid a species where each of them was verging on some mania or other to start with? Still he might last long enough for the purpose Jonathan intended, humans could be surprisingly resistant.

As soon as he was sure Jonathan was far away and as the darkness closed around him Harry stopped imagining a variety of ways to exsanguinate, eviscerate, or otherwise execute Kumbaya-Harry. It was all too easy to fake madness Harry decided, all you needed to do was start talking to yourself, staring blankly into space and giggling occasionally and most people either found you too tiresome or just accepted that you were somewhat cracked. Blackness surrounded him and blackness filled his mind, but in the blackness a spark of white light glowed, and it grew. The shackles trembled, golden light overwhelming the blue shimmer for a second before it faded. Harry trembled, sweat dripped from his brow from the effort. He could not do it yet, but the way was there, he knew it now and all he had to do was reach it. The spun glass silence shattered as Harry laughed.

* * *

_Hogwarts: 25th December 1994, the Yule Ball_

Hermione sat in her room, her knees pulled up to her chest as she ignored the incessant knocking from outside.

'Hermione, please come out,' Ginny's voice begged from the other side, 'you can't keep sitting in there forever. Come to the ball, it will be good for you, it'll keep your mind off … off things.'

Hermione made no answer, merely pressing a pillow around her head. Pavarti and Lavander had already finished their make-up and were helping a couple of girls in another dormitory, there was no reason to open the door. She would not, could not face the thought of going to the ball without knowing where Harry was, it had been a week with no news beyond a nod which might have been encouragement from Dumbledore.

'Hermione,' Ginny's voice had lost its cajoling tone, 'if you don't open this door right now I swear I will come in there whether you like it or not. I'm giving you to the count of three. Three.'

Hermione huddled tighter against her pillow, pulling out the small toy otter her mother had made for her when she was eleven, just before she had gone to Hogwarts, cradling it against her.

'_Two._'

Hermione closed her eyes picturing Harry, black, messy, hair; thin, scrawny and underfed; not particularly tall yet, with the suggestion that he might be heading for a growth spurt (if someone could feed him properly); the lightning bolt scar; and the ever-so slightly lopsided grin.

'_ONE!_' For a second Hermione thought she really could see Harry, bound to a stone chair, the air around him blazing with golden light … and then the door exploded inwards in a thousand tiny slivers of wood so fragile that they virtually dissolved into sawdust.

'I _really _didn't want to do that Hermione, but you left me no choice,' said Ginny, her chest heaving as she advanced through the door. 'I know it hasn't been long, I'm not saying you should give up,' she said holding up a hand to stop Hermione interrupting, 'but you haven't really left this room since the 19th. You have completely ignored Crookshanks; I've been bringing you meals and your bed is surrounded by so many books it looks like a fortress. You need to get out and do something …'

'What?' Asked Hermione hollowly.

'I don't know! Punch Malfoy again; set Snape's shoes on fire; pretend you don't recognise McGonagall in her cat form and cuddle her; fill Dumbledore's lemon sherbets with veritaserum, and layer them with a memory charm,' she paused thoughtfully, 'though actually that might explain how he knows so much, probably ought not to mention that to Luna …'

Hermione let out a snuffling giggle only for it to turn into a sorry little hiccup, 'I get the picture Ginny, but just no, I can't bring myself to.'

'And you never will if you don't get up and start doing.'

'I have been doing, I didn't sleep until last night. I've spent the last week spending every minute trying to find something that will let me find Harry, but _nothing _works, it's not even as if he's dead, it is as if he never existed.'

'Then take a break, leave it to Dumbledore. Relax so you can think, without driving yourself insane,' Ginny laid a hand gently on Hermione's shoulder, 'you aren't doing him any favours by driving yourself into the ground like this.'

All the reply she received was a small sniffle.

'Hermione, this is _not _you. I am taking you down to the ball if I have to drag you there,' Ginny sighed internally, beginning to wonder if there was any point. 'You can't let this beat you, please.'

A minute ticked by and then another. Ginny slowly ran her hands over Hermione's shoulders, the shuddering sobs softened into stillness. Eventually the older girl's head rose, red rimmed eyes grim and determined.

'Fine, but if I'm about as much company as a dead skrewt …'

'At least I'll be glad that you aren't a live one, now come on.'

As the great bell boomed out for the start of the Yule Ball Hermione descended the long flight of stairs, head held high. The traces of tears and exhaustion wiped away for the time being. At the bottom of the stairs Ginny waited with Neville, Ron and Luna. For some reason it was startling to see Neville although she knew that he had asked Ginny who had gladly accepted in order to go to the Yule Ball. Ron and Luna in turn despite their incredibly contrasting natures, looked at least superficially matching, an unintended consequence of Ron's dreadful maroon robe the sleeves of which seem to have had the ends rough sliced off, and Luna's choice of a dress which looked as if it were the unfortunate love child of a radish and an orange.

The long, periwinkle blue, dress swept out around Hermione. Her hair lay coiled neatly for once, the liberal use of potions had finally suppressed its bushy tendencies. The clothes and make-up felt almost like armour, an icy shell she could stand proud within. She had to admit though the fact that she was not carrying a bag filled with so many books that even a feather-light charm hardly seemed to lessen the load was probably helping her to stand tall as much as any pride in herself. Still though it was a way to defy the world and tell it that she was Hermione Granger and she would not be beaten.

Here and there couples were moving towards the doors which Hermione presumed must be about to open. Krum was standing in a striking red tunic, initially Hermione thought that he was unaccompanied too, until just as the doors to the Great Hall and the champions began to walk up Fleur linked her arm with his. It made sense she supposed, they both knew what unwelcome attention was like, and the champions had by and large come a great deal closer after the first task.

Hermione had to suppress a gasp of astonishment as they passed through the doors and entered a transformed Great Hall which more resembled the pictures of the palace of the Snow Queen in her childhood books than the somewhat utilitarian grey stone. Around them pillars and sculptures of ice reached upwards to the enchanted ceiling as snow fell gently to the ground. Numerous tables were dotted around the edges of the hall, though the dais and the high table were there as always, though two seats were empty. At last they came to a space at a table and the five of them sat for the meal before the dancing.

Hermione, turned to question Ginny on her date as Neville left the table to retrieve drinks from them from a series of a dozen waterfalls or more of various drinks, each unmarked. What was it Hermione wondered with wizards and taking unnecessary risks about the taste of what you were going to eat or drink, she supposed it was at least a useful training mechanism to make sure they rarely found the taste of potions particularly surprising.

'You seem to be enjoying yourself with Neville,' Hermione commented whilst scanning the tables, _Ah there Malfoy is, at least I know where not to go near now_, she thought.

'Yes, he is very kind,' Ginny's peculiarly guarded answer caught her attention.

'Ginny, what is it?'

Ginny twisted a lock of hair around her finger, avoiding Hermione's gaze, as she replied, 'It/s just, well you'd know better than anyone. You might accept someone else asking you, but there is only one person you really _want _to ask, and then you can't say anything because the person who did ask them is too close to you to hurt, and you know that saying anything wouldn't change anything anyway. Because it _never could._'

'Who is it Ginny? It isn't Harry again is it? Oh Ginny I'm so sorry …'

'No, not Harry. Don't worry I got over that ages ago. I think it was a phase, I mean maybe in another world, but not this one. Hermione, have you ever wanted to tell someone who just couldn't … she'd never forgive me …'

Hermione's brow crinkled in confusion, 'Who, why wouldn't your mother forgive you? It isn't Malfoy is it?' She suggested in an attempt at humour.

Ginny shook her head with a small smile, 'No not Malfoy and not …'

'Hello, I'm not entirely sure what this one is, but this one is apparently cranberry juice and this is mulled wine, who wants what?' Asked Neville as he returned. It was not long afterwards that the feast appeared and the conversation with Ginny was lost in the babble.

Hermione walked out into the moonlit rose garden to clear her head, behind her the sound of music shook the air and the majority of the students seemed to be following McGonagall's earlier advice and letting their hair down, albeit with a greater degree of exuberance than Gryffindor's Head of House would probably approve of.

It was peaceful out in the warm scent laden air of the garden, save for the occasional couples she passed who seemed to be trying to make as much use of the romantic setting as possible. She wandered in and out among the bushes, her fingers absent-mindedly drifting over soft petals and leaves. At her touch droplets of water shook themselves from the bushes. The snow which, falling earlier, had melted in the garden leaving it with the fresh smell of rain upon the earth.

She glanced back over her shoulder, Luna seemed to have persuaded Ron to try dancing, a mistake in Hermione's opinion after watching him during Gryffindor's dancing lessons. As she turned a corner she looked away only to see Malfoy lounging against a moondial, it was hard to tell in the moonlight but his cheeks seemed to be lightly flushed, Pansy stood behind him looking disgruntled.

'Good evening, Granger, not all _alone_ are we?' Malfoy asked a touch of mock concern colouring his voice. Hermione suppressed a wince at the reference to Harry's absence.

'Good evening, Malfoy, Parkinson,' said Hermione as she turned to go, only to encounter the solid wall of Goyle's chest. She reached for her wand, but Crabbe moving in from the side acted faster and his hand was already clasped around her handbag.

'Tut, tut. Surely a teacher's pet like you wouldn't have left her wand out of easy reach? Forgetting the dear Professor Moody's words already?' Malfoy murmured softly.

'Not surprising when it's mudblood though is it?' Pansy sneered from near his shoulder.

'Now Pansy, no need to be rude. Crabbe is not holding your wand because of your … heritage, Granger, at least not directly, if he were it would already be little more than a couple of matchsticks. The issue here is because of your behaviour towards me, and mine.'

'What are you talking about Malfoy? Just tell your little minion to give me back my wand and I'll be gone. I honestly don't want to have to deal with your ego,' replied Hermione, quelling the rising tide of panic as she tried to discretely check for escape routes. There were none the roses were solid on each side. The sound of the revels was far away, muted, they were probably under a silencing charm she guessed.

'Hold her,' Goyle's arms clamped down on hers too strong for struggling to have any purpose, 'now Granger. I seem to remember that at the World Cup you tried to lord it over me with the help of your friends, and I have come to the conclusion that your behaviour over the last few years needs to be remedied. This time I have the advantage, and a I want to leave a lasting impression. Now I realise that this may seem a little crude, but I think it should prove effective. _Flagranta_,' said Malfoy, and the tip of his wand began to glow a bright, burning white. 'By the way Granger, I want you to know something, before we finish I'm going to memory charm you, you will remember this, but you won't have a clue who did it. Maybe if I'm feeling really confident of my abilities I'll let you remember it as Weasley and Potter, won't that be nice? Your last memory of your blood traitor boyfriend will be of him burning the words "mudblood whore" into you. Now Pansy, where should I start?'

Hermione tried to pull free of Goyle's grip, and opened her mouth to scream only to find that someone had already silenced her. Malfoy moved towards her, closer and closer so that she could see the sweat beading on his brow as his held his wand out towards her, it was barely inches away, she could feel the heat of the tip radiating outwards. Hermione closed her eyes, gritting her teeth.

Then the tip was pressing into her skin just below the left-hand side of her collar bone, the sweet smell of burning flesh filled the air and her world exploded into agony. She could not help it as her mouth opened in a soundless scream. Malfoy slowly drew the line of searing pain down into the first line of an M. The wound was cauterised as it went, but the pain was like nothing she had ever known, it seemed her skin was melting, as if her body was losing all control. Tears were gathering at the corners of her eyes, but somehow she found comfort in them, she could control them no matter what she would not let them fall.

'Drop your wand now,' said a voice with deadly calm, 'I can assure you that the only reason my companions and I are not displaying our extreme displeasure right now is out of a concern for Hermione.' Cedric Diggory faded into view, the disillusionment charm fading, a wand pointed directly at Malfoy's head. Beside him Fleur, Krum and Cho Chang appeared in a similar manner their wands pointed at Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy respectively.

Malfoy froze his wand falling to the floor with a clatter as he withdrew it from Hermione. A second later three stunners crashed home and Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle sank to the floor unconscious. Fleur turned, an uncharacteristically ugly expression on her face and Pansy too fell over, her already squashed looking face slamming into the ground.

'Sorry, I've never been any use with stunners,' said Cho apologetically as Krum caught Hermione.

Fleur rushed over to her side as Krum gently lowered her, and waving her wand began to mutter healing charms, a faint purple glow shimmered over the edges of torn skin. Hermione shivered violently as the sensation of the cool, numbing spells soothed the wound.

'Vill she be vell?' Asked Krum, his accent heavier in what sounded like concern through the fog of pain in Hermione's mind as her breathing became more and more ragged.

'Per'aps, zhis is ze black magic. One of you go, fetch a professor. I can only do so much,' Fleur replied tightly, as Hermione heaved, her back arching as the fiery mark blazed brighter.

As Cho ran off through the maze of rose bushes Cedric leaned over Hermione, kneeling down, 'I'm sorry we were slow in getting here, Krum saw Malfoy and his goons run off after you and thought we ought to follow. Owe it to a fellow champion and all that …'

'Andt you have been kind to help in the library, you are a friend. Scum like this,' Krum added, kicking Malfoy, 'deserve punishment. In Durmstrang ve know how to deal vith them.'

'But we didn't want to end up attacking so that Malfoy lost control, if he had that spell could have burnt you for life. Thankfully Fleur here is a bit of a natural touch when it comes to fire, so she should be able to contain the curse. Sorry, I'm babbling a bit aren't I?' finished Cedric as footsteps sounded on the path.

Cho's voice unnaturally loud was speaking hurriedly, 'Thank you for coming so quickly, Professor Snape, they're just around here.'

Cedric's eyes widened, 'Quick move this lot out of sight, Snape will probably look after hos own before he even touches Hermione,' he and Krum began to roll the bodies under the rosebuses. Just as Snape swished around the corner like a shadow Krum straightened up.

'What has been going on here? All the champions gathered, remarkable I did not expect the tournament to prompt cooperation in the manner that it evidently has.'

'Hermione, sir, she's been hurt by someone, we were just out for a walk in the garden when we heard someone use the _Flagranta_ curse. Fleur's been trying to contain it …' Cedric's voice trailed off under Snape's icy glare.

'And the culprit, or culprits?'

'Nowhere to be seen,' Cedric said, his eyes glancing momentarily to Goyle's hand which had flopped out of the bush.

Snape began to turn, only for Fleur to cry out, 'Sir, please, I need your 'elp, if you do not do something ze curse will begin eating outwards any second.' Snape turned back, wand already drawn as Krum moved in front of Goyle's arm. Fleur backed out of the way as he started whispering spells, magic flowing in a constant stream from his wand, surrounding the burnt tissue in a misty veil. Hermione's face had turned an unhealthy off-white, sweat pouring from her.

'Miss Delacour, I shall require three drops of your blood in order to stabilize her,' ground out Snape as wordless magic still poured from him. Fleur hurried forward and pricking her finger on a rose thorn held it out to him. Snape took her hand, and surprisingly gently held it out over the gash in Hermione's chest, carefully squeezing out the droplets of blood. As they fell a hint of steam arose from beneath the magic and then there was silence as the magic faded and Hermione lay there her beautiful dress flecked with rich earth, her breathing even and soft. The magic faded revealing no more than a slim white scar.

'She will bear that for the rest of her life, but your work Miss Delacour was almost undoubtedly the one thing which has at least let her keep that life. Otherwise given that the spell seems to have been left unfinished she would have died. You were foolish not to find a teacher before you intervened,' Snape finished. Cedric and Cho blinked, it was both one of the longest and most pleasant speeches they had ever heard from their potions master.

'Now I suggest you take her back to the castle and find a friend to take her to bed. I believe Miss Weasley was looking somewhat bored, no doubt the result of Mr Longbotttom's company,' Snape straightened up, rolling his shoulders and turned to leave.

'Thank you,' said a faint voice from behind him, Hermione's eyes were open and she had managed to push herself into a sitting position.

Snape turned and his black eyes bored into hers for a second, Hermione felt certain that he had been looking for the names of her attackers, but he said nothing about them, 'Next time you go for a quiet walk alone Miss Granger I suggest you attempt not to be the centre of so much trouble. I had hoped that with Mr Potter temporarily absent I might have a peaceful evening.'

He stood looking after the five of them as the walked away, Krum supporting Hermione and Cho holding Cedric's arm as Fleur and he talked. It was one of the occasions on which the Granger girl reminded him most forcibly of another muggleborn he had once known. Eventually he strode out of the clearing, leaving the stunned forms of Malfoy, Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle behind him, no one need know of this, and it would be better if his Slytherin charges did not tell their parents that he had helped a muggleborn.

'Listen, could not tell anyone about this?' Hermione asked as they neared the castle.

'Vhy not, Herminony? No von vill think less of you for it.'

'I know, but it is just really important to me that no-one should know,' she pleaded, 'If they do, then Malfoy will have won anyway, he wanted people to know that he'd beaten me, please … if they try anything again then I'll be ready for them, and I will tell the teachers. Just this time though, please don't.' It hurt her to lie to them, especially when they had just saved her, but it was the only thing to do. She had to hope Dumbledore would not find out from Snape, but if the others talked then she felt her last hopes of being included in the search for Harry fading.

'Very well 'ermione,' said Fleur eventually, and a touch archly as if she felt their efforts to help had been rejected, 'I understand 'ow it is. I 'ave many times had men, and women attempt to attack me for one reason or another, I thought zhe same way as you did at first. I am glad I 'ad friends to watch my back until I realised how foolish I 'ad been. I 'ope you will stay around friends who will watch yours. Come now, we are missing the party, and I doubt we will see another one like it, even if it is in this miserable grey country.'

'Come on now Fleur, it isn't that bad,' said Cedric with a grin as they started off again and the two began to bicker goodnaturedly. Behind them the bodies of Hermione's attackers were surrounded by the rosebushes, Hogwarts looked after her children, but those who tormented others were dealt with. When they awoke they would have a great deal of trouble and pain extricating themselves from the long thorns.

It was not a great deal later that Hermione with Ginny beside her ascended the steps to the girl's dormitory in Gryffindor tower and went to sleep, Crookshanks curled beside her.

In a dark cave under a hill where a boy who had no idea whether it was night or day sat blood began to seep through the seventh of the thirteen ever widening circles and channels which lay around a stone throne.

**A/N:** I realise that some people may regard this chapter as too broken up, too slow and too Hermione centred. However, all those things are to a purpose, the broken up nature of the Harry sections in particular is an attempt to convey how the world seems to him in comparison to the more measured sections with Hermione. Also the fact that Hermione's sections may seem a touch slow is in turn a representation of how things are dragging along for her. Hermione is as much of a main character in this story as Harry really, so she deserves a bit more screen time.

By the way, I am sorry for mangling accents, but I'm just trying to convey a vague impression, if anyone wants to beta for me and make things better, well it would be very much appreciated.

I am sorry for making Hermione a victim and letting other people save her, but sometimes no matter how brilliant we are we need the help of others.

I know that the Hermione coming down the stairs is really only shown in the film, but she did actually have to come down stairs, unless everyone started using broomsticks instead of trying to navigate those moving staircases.

Incidentally I know that I made Harry and Hermione get together rather suddenly a few chapters back and I ought to say that I felt the time they had spent together in cannon gave them enough of a background. Why is Ron not jealous? Well honestly because this is an alternative universe where he isn't besotted with Hermione and she isn't with him. It might have happened but things just haven't worked out that way.

**I have a poll on my profile which I would be very grateful if people participated in. Also, if you have any ideas which you would like to suggest for this story please send me a private message. I have a plot and quite a detailed summary for sometime to come but it is always enlightening to hear other people's ideas and yours may well be better than mine. This is not a very professional way for a writer to behave I know, but then again this is a fanfiction so I suppose I can get away with breaking the rules.**


	11. Of Bargains and Promises

**Disclaimer: **For some reason this is the part I find most annoying to write, so you can tell that I wouldn't say I didn't own this unless I had to. All hail J.K. Rowling.

**A/N: **This is just a quick note of thanks to those who have reviewed the story. Your reviews have been incredibly helpful and kind and really pushed me forward with writing. I am more grateful than I can possibly say.

Also today has been the single day with most visitors to this story, and the day on which you managed to break well through 10,000 views. So thank you again. And now on with the show ...

**Of Bargains and Promises**

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep._

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

Robert Frost

_Cornwall: 26th of December 1994_

The tall, broad shouldered, woman stooped as she entered the shop, the door bell jangling. The shopkeeper, a small, dark man with a mouth like a strand dried mermaid's purse seaweed watched her carefully, eyes following her as he lounged against the counter. She moved quietly, cautiously even among the shelves, selecting an apple here, a loaf of pale, tasteless bread there. As she approached the counter she seemed to have folded in on herself so that she was almost of a normal size, though the impression of size was still impossible to ignore. She handed the food over.

'Do you want it bagged?' The shopkeeper asked as he scanned a packet of hazelnuts, 'Only it'll cost an extra five pence, for the environment ya' see …'

The woman shook her head.

'Whereabouts are ya' from?' He asked, glancing up at her as the ancient till totaled up the cost.

'Oh here and there, my work takes me around a lot.'

'Really? Some sort of salesman then, are you on business? I don't think we've had any down in these parts for a long time,' his tone suggested that there was a good reason that no salesman had come by in a long time.

'Not exactly, I'm on a holiday.'

'Oh,' his face performed an odd little dance as if unsure whether to scowl or smile, eventually settling into what he must have imagined was an engaging smile expression. It born more of a resemblance to a corpse's grimace. 'Are down for long? For m'self I've been here about ten years, left London for it. That'll be six pounds and thirty pence.'

'Ah, enjoy it much?' The woman asked, in a purposefully poor attempt to feign interest, she was beginning to find the vague smell of damp sweets and dust oppressive and the hint of daylight and fresh air visible through the small window in the shop door was becoming more and more inviting. She handed over a ten pound note, scooping up her purchases in one arm, tucking the pack of nuts into her pocket.

'Aye, a great deal, nice folk down here. In the city they'll rob you blind, but I must admit that I'll give a hell of a lot to be back there, always something happening. Do you know London much? I'll just get your change,' he fumbled with the till, knocking a few coins onto the floor and bending to pick them up.

'I have rarely been there, I find cities … difficult, it is harder to breath amid concrete than among trees. I have always found them to be dead places.'

'Nothing of the sort, liveliest places there are, can't beat 'em. Here you go.'

She turned to leave, 'Have a good day.' The only reply was a vague grunt from the small man as he turned back to counting a set of dusty jars on a shelf..

Turning out of the shop Bodmahl walked briskly up the hill and climbing over a gate cut across a field towards a small wood. The leaves and mud squelched beneath her walking boots as she strode along, enjoying the clean, fresh scent of the air. The bark on the trees was a dull, iron grey, at least where ivy and dark moss were not hanging like tangled hair. She paused beside a waterfall, watching the foaming, white water hammering down over the slate. She sighed, closing her eyes, it felt magnificent to relax for once, no mysterious missions, no-one to kill, nothing dangerous to do. She imagined settling down finally, buying a small cottage somewhere, comfortably if not neatly furnished, rich reds and golds interspersed with greens, a few worn Persian carpets. Perhaps she could get a dog, nothing too big or small, a retriever or a spaniel maybe …

A light tap on her shoulder shook her out of her daydream, 'Hello Bridget,' said a familiar voice.

'Why do you insist on calling me that ridiculous name, Jonathan?' She replied wearily, opening her eyes and turning to face him.

'I have never thought it was ridiculous, it was the name you were given after all,' he replied archly.

'And I shed it like a skin a long time ago, just as you shed your own name.'

'I never shed it … I treasure it, and as such I keep it safe. Now, how are you?'

'Well enough, but I am so tired, so very tired of all of this,' she waved her hand vaguely.

'I know, I really, really do,' he placed his hand on her shoulder in a conciliatory gesture, 'It will not be long now, soon, soon we will be free to live as we choose. Until then though I am bound to this course …'

'Free? I thought your oath bound you forever.'

'Oh yes, forever,' he agreed somewhat too cheerily, 'I thought he was right once … Still I have come to you for a reason,' he turned away from her, running his hand through his hair and beginning to walk along the narrow path which wound down the slope of the hillside between the ferns and trees.

'Can't you ever just drop by to say hello?' She muttered, refusing to look at the expression on his face.

'Of course I can, would you like that? If you ask I'll always come, you know that.'

'It isn't something I should have to ask, if you want to come you wou … I mean, could,' she sighed rubbing her palm against her forehead.

'Forgive me, I'm sorry. You know that I do not always remember how your kind behave,' the tone was tinged with reproach.

'So you always say, it's your escape clause for everything, "I do not understand, I am not one of you". Change the record. I _know _you, you may not realise it but you've been around us too long not to be able to understand,' she knew it sounded like a child's tantrum, but it felt _so _good to let feelings out.

'Do you think I follow this path without any concern for you? I am not my kin, their ways are my ways no longer. I have,' he swallowed unnerved by the word, '_learnt_, but it is learning. Mimicry, that is all.'

'Fine,' she spat, 'why should it matter? The last time you showed real interest in me except to use me was when I was before I was of age anyway,' her eyes were stinging and she turned away from him as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Her broad shoulders shook slightly, and for a second he hesitated before wrapping his arms were around her shoulders awkwardly holding her as he had always done since she was small. She knew the expression of pained regret she would see on his face if she looked, it was the same one he had worn whenever she had fallen or hurt herself when she was young. It was not that she really blamed him, he had no more of a choice any more than she did. They stood there on the muddy path like parent and child seeking refuge in one another's company. The words they did not say said all that needed to be said.

At last she stood back, wiping the cuff of her sleeves across her eyes. She took a deep breath steeling herself, 'What is it then? What do you need me to do.'

He did not look at her as he answered, turning away, whether to hide tears of his own, or merely because he found hers disconcerting she could not tell, 'The Cauldron, the greatest of the treasures of Britain. I need it.'

'Tell me where it is, or merely give me what you can and I will fetch it for you, no matter what bars the way.'

'Be careful, that is a dangerous promise. To find out where it lies is not the issue, I have tracked it down the years, it lies in the hands of a wizard now, rich, powerful, arrogant, the usual,' he sneered. 'However, he knows nothing of its true value beyond the appearance and the obvious magic it contains, nor does he care. He values it as no more than a collector's item.'

'Can we buy it from him then?' Bodmahl asked as they paused a narrow bridge of dark, rain slicked wood over a shallow stream.

The Pale Man shook his head, 'No, unfortunately that is not the style in which these things must be done. If we merely did that the magic would not respond, and we would be left with nothing more than a cauldron. It is quite possible that we cannot obtain the cauldron in this world at all, the one he holds is merely,' he paused as if to consider what words to use to describe it, 'a shell, an image in a mirror in comparison to the real one, if one tried to perform magic with it there might well be dire consequences. There must be a competition for it, a race perhaps, the judges will select our rivals …'

'The judges, competition? I'm sorry, I really don't understand this,' her voice still thrummed with tension and weariness, 'I do not think you ever covered magical bargains with cauldrons in my lessons. I suspect most curricula consider it a somewhat esoteric branch of study, and normally I might agree, but if you could elucidate it would help.'

'It is very simple, a task will be set in the traditional manner, there will be a competitor who will be selected for their importance in affairs to come. First, however, we must begin the game,' he said, squatting beside the water, trailing his fingers in the stream.

'So … who will set the task?' Bodmahl asked as she scuffed her foot on the wood, watching the flakes of mud fall into the clear water.

'The Guardians, the Nine Watchers. You must go to the cauldron and awake the magic. Do not try to take it, do not touch it with bare skin, do not use magic upon it. All you need do is greet the one who will meet you,' he said it slowly as if reading the words from a barely visible script. 'You will need help, the usual sort.'

'Right, I'll see to it. Care to tell me the name of the wizard?'

'Of course, and Bridget …'

'Yes?'

'Take care.'

Then he was gone and the water droplets which had been on his fingers fell the ripples they raised in the river formed a name, and then they were washed away as the water rushed onwards.

* * *

_Hogwarts: 26th of December, 15:00_

Professor Dumbledore sat as his desk as Professor Morgan was positively draped over the chair in front of his desk, the long red velvet hanging like dripping blood over the arms. The woman looked more catlike than McGonagall in her animagus form, though it had to be admitted that few cats sat as if they were the work of a good taxidermist so it was perhaps not so surprising. Through the window the chill light of the afternoon sun shown in, as grey and bleak as the sky above the castle. In nooks and crannies candles shown, yellow light enhanced by charms so that the entire room was bathed in a golden glow. Rain pattered against the windows.

'Lemon sherbet, my dear Tara?' Dumbledore asked, as he picked a sweet from the bowl on his desk, it looked to Professor Morgan suspiciously like a type of ritual item generally used for the summoning of spirits of one sort or another.

'I think not Dumbledore,' she said sweetly, her Irish accent lending the words an edge of laughter, 'if you had heard half the notions which students come up with about those lemon drops I think you would avoid them yourself.'

His eyes twinkled brightly over the half-moon spectacles, 'Who do you think started most of those stories?'

'Even the one with the cursed ball of yarn and the fall of Atlantis?'

'Yes, I have always been particularly proud of that one. Though it does has a few grains of truth in it. However, as much as I would like to spend some time swapping stories about our younger days,' he said shooting Professor Morgan a piercing glance, 'which I am sure might prove most interesting for both of us, that is not the reason you are here.'

'No, of course not, forgive me, what was it then that you wanted Headmaster?'

He paused momentarily, only the faint whirring of delicate silver instruments, broken by the slow ticking of a grandfather clock filled the silence.

'It is my duty as headmaster to make sure that all my teachers as well as my students are happy and well-cared for, since this has been your first term here. Are you happy in your position?'

'Exceptionally so, although I must observe that the late Professor Binns' teaching method has had some unfortunate effects on the popularity of the History of Magic course among the pupils,' she replied

'It did indeed, unfortunately Professor Binns obtained his post, or so history teaches us, through nepotism. His uncle, Osrik the Obfuscating was headmaster at the time and signed him on for a contract that would last as long as Professor Binns wanted, provided that at no point he should leave the school. As one might guess Osrik changed his mind within a week, and spent the next forty years trying to force Professor Binns to leave the post, there were rumours at the time that Osrik himself poisoned Binns. Though historians have discounted the theory as Osrik had been dead for over fifteen years by the time that Binns himself died. I personally believe this struggle was probably the cause of his opposition to the idea of leaving the school. I have always felt it would be most unfortunate were I forced into a similar position of conflict with a professor, though I flatter myself that I would be rather more successful than Osrik.

'However, that is something of a tangent, to return to the matter in hand then, you have nothing to raise with me? Forgive me for my concern, most members of the staff are unchanging features, I am most accustomed to talking to defence professors about such matters and they often report strange figures following them through the hallways, noises outside their doors, a growing sense of dread and so on and so forth. Nothing of that sort yet?' Dumbledore asked, steepling his fingers as he looked at her, the implicit threat clear.

'No, nothing of the kind. I was wondering though whether you had any news that you might like to share with me?'

'Straight forward and to the point as always. I have news, but I urge you to tell me what you know now. I assure you that I will retrieve the stone for you. A boy's life hangs in the balance, at it would be a tragedy to waste a life in return for a material possession, to destroy the young is to destroy the future.' Dumbledore said, his voice was serene, as if he were merely speaking of the weather.

'May I speak frankly with you?' Professor Morgan asked, shifting in the chair.

'Please do, double meanings and carefully worded phrases are of most use when one is speaking to those who do not know for sure one's nature or when in the company of others who do not know one's purpose.'

'Then I say this Headmaster: I do not trust you. If you were able to rescue the boy then I could not be sure that you would not find some way to either re-engage on the bargain or to alter it to your advantage. No, do not suggest an unbreakable vow or anything of the kind,' she said forestalling his protest, 'I know enough of your abilities not to trust to such charms.'

Dumbledore nodded acknowledging the point, 'Very well. Then I will tell you some of what I know, or guess. I know the probable location of the stone, although there are other possibilities this is the one of which I am most sure. It is likely to be heavily guarded, though by what I am not sure, I intend to set off in order to obtain it shortly given the outcome of this meeting, you will have it before midnight if all goes well. If not … please tell Minerva that I have done my best to leave the affairs of the school in a well ordered fashion.'

Professor Morgan nodded, her characteristic smile gone form her face, 'I do not know what guards the stone Dumbledore, any more than I know where it lies. However, I feel it in my bones that you should not go alone, take the girl, Hermione, with you, I have a feeling that she will prove important.'

'Out of the question, she is too young. Intelligent though she is, brilliant even, she would be an added danger, and I could not countenance risking her life. The old should protect the young for as long as they can, whatever the cost. I have made many decisions I regret in my life, decisions which have forced those who should do the least to do the most, but I have never done so when need did not drive me,' Dumbledore said rising to his feet.

'There must come a time when the young begin to shoulder the burden. She will not betray you, or flee from your side, she has more interest in this than any other. I say to you Dumbledore, if you go alone you go to your death!' As her voice rose in a shout so too did she so that they stood facing each other, unmovable determination etched on both their faces.

'May I remind you that you chose this path Tara, if it was not what you wished then you should not have set your feet upon it,' answered Dumbledore coldly, 'I suggest you leave now. I will see you again in a few hours time.'

She turned and swept to the door, only pausing for a second before she left, 'Very well, I hope to all the gods that ever were that you return. I will give you this promise though, if you fail and some evil fate befalls you then I shall do _my utmost_ to rescue the boy and help him as you would have done.' The door slammed shut behind her, and the spiral staircase began to grind downwards.

* * *

_Hogwarts, Gryffindor Tower, Girls Dormitories: 26th December around 15:30_

Professor Morgan reached forward and twitched the hood of the invisibility cloak over Hermione's shoulders, the cloak enveloped her, even with the satchel on her shoulder it was still too large for her, the loose cloth pooled at her feet.

'I swear this hood hasn't always been here, we'd have noticed it,' muttered Hermione's disembodied voice.

'Sometimes you have to know what to look for before you can see it,' Professor Morgan replied, her lips twitching in what might have been a smile. She waited holding out an aged broom for Hermione 'Remember to place a silencing charm upon yourself Miss Granger, no matter how good an invisibility cloak is it cannot prevent detection if it's wearer thunders around like a trample of trolls. I trust that you will be able to remove it?'

Hermione nodded before realising that the movement was pointless, 'Yes, Professor.' As she continued berating herself for never having thought that anyone who actually went through the bother of creating an invisibility cloak would have incorporated a hood. It was obviously necessary element to such and item, otherwise you would effectively have an invisibility blanket. It was not as if you could even wear it as a fetching fashion accessory, at least not unless you felt that only presenting a head for viewing was good manners. She really ought to tell Harry next time she saw him, it would make things so much easier … her thoughts trailed off, thinking about Harry was not a good idea at the moment.

'Are you sure I have to ride a broom though?' She asked nervously.

'Dumbledore will have a large head-start given the time I wasted trying to find your common room. It is your only chance of catching him before he leaves the grounds. I will repeat my advice just this once: do not try to persuade him to take you with him, merely grab hold of his robes. He will almost undoubtedly apparate,' she paused, looking away from where she thought Hermione was standing, 'that may well have some unintended side-effects upon your growth, but you're almost grown anyway. Only reveal yourself once you arrive, at that point he may well decide that it is too late to take you back and your determination will have been proved. No matter what do not let him persuade you to return, I doubt he will force you,' she pressed Hermione's hands together around the broom handle, holding them for a few seconds. 'Now go. I know that you do not trust me, but in this believe me when I say I have your best interests at heart and those of Mr Potter.' Then the professor was gone, her long, velvet, dress rustling as she swept from the room.

Hermione tapped the Marauder's Map, retrieved recently, like the cloak from Harry's room, 'I solemnly swear I'm up to no good,' she ground out, even saying it made her wince. Her eyes scanned across the parchment, there was Ronald Weasley and Luna Lovegood were in a broom cupboard on the seventh floor, Sally-Anne Perks and Lily Moon were in another on the third floor. Really the map ought to have some way to perform a quick search she thought. She carried on searching, Alastor Moody was in his office with Bartemius Crouch, pacing; Rita Skeeter was, it seemed taking a stroll with Draco Malfoy. Finally she saw the name: Albus Dumbledore. He was moving through the great hall, apparently towards the entrance. It was perhaps a pity that as she tapped the map whispering 'Mischief managed' she did not see the name of the figure which was working its way back from the Gryffindor girls' dormitories to a set of three rooms near the History of Magic classrooms.

Hermione pushed open the window, she paused to utter a quick heating charm before pulling the invisibility cloak's hood over her head, she and the broom vanished entirely. With a slight quaver in her voice she commanded the broom to rise tentatively kicking off before gliding out into the chilly, winter, air. She took a deep breath before beginning her descent towards the cast iron gates at the edge of the grounds. Her breath shock as she flew, her hands gripping the broomstick hard enough that even as the heating charm took the bite from the icy wind her knuckles were turning white. As she continued her descent she could already feel her charm fading fast against the power of the elements, but she could not bring herself to draw her wand and recast it.

Falling snowflakes landed on her cheeks settling for a few moments before melting. Her flight was silent, as the silencing charm enfolded her. Despite her fear of flying broomsticks, something which she would never admit might be a phobia, she had to admit there were benefits to it as she neared the ground. The snow was deep and unbroken, no matter how impenetrable the invisibility granted by the cloak it did not prevent her from being intangible, she suspected that a series of footprints appearing in the snow would alert the Headmaster to her presence.

Along the path in front of her strode a tall figure in a cream coloured robe embroidered with curling figures in dark greens and blacks. The gates were hardly any distance as she glided alongside him, barely a foot away from him. Once or twice Dumbledore seemed to glance around as if he could sense that someone was nearby, but each time he seemed to decide that he must have been wrong, it was all Hermione could do to keep her breathing quiet and even. Nevertheless he continued without pause.

As the gates opened Hermione held her hand, under the invisibility cloak, mere inches from Dumbledore's robe, upon the instant that he began to turn she placed her hand upon it. The world blinked out replaced by a crushing feeling as if she were being stretched and squeezed simultaneously through an impossibly small tube. She could not move, could not breath, she could not feel, not even the sensation of her clothes against her skin, there was nothing but the crushing weight of remoulding the universe. Then they were out again and the air was fresh and beautiful and she knew she was _alive. _They were on a road next to a hedge, a tumbled down cottage could just be seen poking over the tangled hawthorn. Somehow she had managed to stay on the broom which still hovered as if they had not moved at all. However, she could not prevent herself from gulping in air as if she had been drowning,Dumbledore turned, frowning. He drew his wand and waved it in a slow circle, the air shuddered for a second and the snowflakes which were falling around them turned to water. Hermione was powerless to do anything as they fell to earth melting the tiny holes in the snow as if it were Swiss cheese, except of course where she was hovering. Dumbledore reached forward and plucked the cloak from her, pulling it away so that the clasp did nothing to stop the movement.

He looked at her for a second or two, disappointment rather than anger marking his features, 'Well Miss Granger?'

The broom sank to the ground and Hermione dismounted, hanging her head, the shame almost a physical blow, 'I'm sorry Professor, but Professor Morgan told me I _had _to go with you, or else …' her voice trailed off, she was unsure of the reason beyond the fact that it had seemed important enough to rule out all other concerns.

His piercing blue eyes locked with hers, 'Is that all Miss Granger? Simply that you were told to follow me?'

'No, I want to help, she said you were going to retrieve the stone she wanted. You were going to save Harry, and … and I needed to take part. That is, _I _wanted to come, to do whatever I could to help,' it sounded pathetic to put it in so many words, but she felt as he looked at her calmly that he really did understand her desire to be of use.

'I appreciate the sentiment Miss Granger, but I fear you would be far more of a liability than an asset this venture.'

Hermione closed her eyes. She desperately wanted to just say that she was sorry, that she had acted like a fool and she would go back, but ultimately she knew she could not. It was not that Professor Morgan's words had robbed her of a will of her own, it was quite simply that there was no choice. Hermione Granger, whose first instinct was to follow the instructions of authorities like Dumbledore, an unquestionably good man, had no choice but to set herself against him. He was a good man, she had no doubt, for what other type of person would a phoenix bind itself to?

She opened her eyes and spoke slowly, 'I will stay, unless you force me to go back.' _And_, she thought to herself, _it _is_ unlikely that he will force me to go back. Try and persuade me? Certainly. Actually use force to make me return, when I'm doing this for Harry? Probably not._

Dumbledore looked at her, it was the kind of look which made one want to explain anything, everything in fact. There was a compulsion to _do the right thing_ in that stare, even the most hardened of wrongdoers would have quivered under it.

'Well Miss Granger,' he said slowly, 'I really cannot allow you to accompany me. It is simply too dangerous, but as I suspect you have already guessed I will not force you to return. The greatest thing we can risk ourselves for is love, and it is a comfort that I should have such dedication with me here. However,' he said holding up one gnarled finger, as he gazed at her over the half-moon spectacles, 'I must insist that you follow my instructions to the letter, no matter what they are, instantaneously. A moment's hesitation may mean the difference between life and death. Do you agree?'

Hermione nodded quickly, feeling a rush of anxiety power through her, her heart beating faster as she fingered her wand. The cold air biting her skin despite the thick Hogwart's robes.

'Good. This means that if I tell you to leave and save yourself you will do so, yes? Now give me your oath.'

'I promise that I will do as you say …'

'Even if it means fleeing to save your own life?'

'Yes,' she said, her voice small and strangled. _What can be guarding it that Dumbledore thinks I might have to try and escape without him? What am I going to do if he doesn't escape? _'Professor … could I just ask, where … what is … um,' she winced, she _never_ said 'um', 'what do you think we might encounter?'

Dumbledore smiled lightly, 'I honestly have no idea, Miss Granger. As to where we are, we are just outside a village in the North of England, very picturesque in the spring time I should think. By the look of that pub down there this may be the perfect place to start Filius' beer marathon next year, I must remember to tell him … Anyway, we must be off.'

Dumbledore turned and pushed through the overgrown gap in the hedge which bordered the road, Hermione scrabbled after him, folding up the invisibility cloak as she went and placing it inside her satchel.

* * *

_The Hollow Hill_

Jonathan waited in the corner of the cavern, again and again he tossed a coin into the air deflecting the falling droplets. He watched the boy as he sat motionless in a pool of golden light which leaked from him like sweat. It really was impressive, Jonathan reflected, there was no doubt that the scrawny child was powerful, to harness such magic merely through the concentration of the will one had to be. A pity that the lock was unbreakable without both bloodlines attempting to open it at once, but then again the chains were not for the one who bore them in any case. Nevertheless they would not be a problem for much longer, he glanced sideways towards the tunnel which sloped gently upward through the hill, not much longer now …

* * *

'As I was saying,' Dumbledore continued, as they rounded the corner of the house, though shack would have been a more accurate description, 'though I am unable to explain the reasons for the research which has led me to believe that the ring lies here I hope it is sufficient to say that I discovered a glimpse of the sign of the Deathly Hallows upon a stone set in a ring in a memory I collected many years ago.'

Dumbledore squinted for a second at the door of the hut before muttering to himself, 'Ingenious, Tom must truly have spent a long time labouring here.'

'What do you mean Professor?'

'Oh nothing in particular Miss Granger, there is a ward placed upon the door so that any attempt to open it by wand or hand would lead one simply into the hut, however, if one has the power …'

He gave a slight flick with his hand, careful not to touch the wood, and the door swung open. Hermione peered around his cloak and gasped, inside was not the small, cramped, dusty room she had expected, rather as far as the eye could see a hall ringed by tall, Gothic, mirrors stretched away.

'Draw your wand Miss Granger, and keep close to my side. I am afraid that it is time to enter the rabbit hole as it were, I do not think that all we shall find is Wonderland.' With those words he ducked under the lintel and into the cavernous room and behind him the door began to silently swing shut.

Hermione almost leapt after him, dropping the broomstick and only just squeezing through the rapidly closing gap. The door shut with a soft click and for a few seconds they were left in completely darkness, and then she heard Dumbledore mutter something and bluebell flames burst into life at the edges of the room, shedding just enough life to see by. She hesitated almost following suit, but decided that there was little point in doing so. The air was foul and damp making her almost gag as she took slow, shallow breaths.

'Headmaster,' she asked tentatively as he stood still, his silvery beard glowing eerily in the light of the blue flames, 'what do we do now?'

'Evidently one of these mirrors guards the correct path, however, we need to determine which, and as even the mirror which we came through is no longer the one it was it may take some time.'

'But I didn't even see them move, how …'

'The wizard who created this room would not have bothered with illusions of movement, the simple fact is that the mirror which you may think we came through now houses something … well something we do not want to meet. I advise you not to touch them, and incidentally, I would not look up.'

She flinched, turning her eyes to the ground, though a tense pressure filled her chest, pulling her eyes upward. She licked her lips, trying to think, 'Why did he make the mirrors hold the real doorway? Why not conceal it without a visible entrance?'

'An interesting possibility Miss Granger, it is certainly something we must be wary of. I think though that our first recourse should be to the mirrors, while they are obviously designed to be a trap, I believe they are also intended to draw us further into the web if possible. If you set off to the left I shall set off to the right. Call out if you spot anything unusual, and I do mean _anything_, the extra layers of magic upon the mirror are likely to be,' he paused, shooting her a firm glance, 'do not give in to doubts, no matter how pressing.' Dumbledore's expression lightened and he gave a kindly smile, his eyes twinkling. With a wave of his wand a pillar of white fire burst into life marking their starting point, 'Good luck, if it takes more than half an hour to meet me return here, I cannot detect any charms to suggest the room is endless, but that may mean little … anyway it will not be long before we are back at Hogwarts and have retrieved Harry as well.'

Hermione nodded nervously, holding her wand out in front of her as she turned and began to walk along, unconsciously tiptoeing past the silent dark panes of silvered glass. She spent as long as she dared scanning the frames. Each was made from some dark substance, possibly obsidian, though she could not bring herself to touch it as it crawled with strange, unsightly, carvings which seemed to shift whenever her eyes left them. She shuddered and tore her eyes away from them suppressing an almost overwhelming desire to retch and tore her eyes away from the frames, glancing across to where Dumbledore was, or at least where she supposed he was. Despite the blue flames it was almost impossible to see across the hall, the only point of true brightness the pillar of white flame which still burnt brightly. With a sinking feeling she realised that she had barely passed a dozen mirrors and despite the palpable sense of _evil which_ emanated from them there was little truly unusual about them.

Might it not be easier to simply wait here for Dumbledore to complete his circuit and meet her here? Or she could run after him and ask for him to send her back, just get her out of there, go on alone, or find something else to bargain with Professor Morgan with. She had almost determined to go after him when she heard the noise. It was a dry noise, the noise which the night wind would make if it were to rustle silken folds over scales, it came from behind the mirrors. She knew then, to turn, to flee would let whatever it was free to come after her.

Slowly she carried on, step by step, and as she went the creature behind the mirrors followed her, the carvings rippling with its passage, the blue fires dimming. She dared not turn now to look at the mirrors, anything upon them went unnoticed. Her heart beat loudly in her ears, pounding like the beat of a drum, how many mirrors had it been now? Twenty? Thirty? Thirty-four she thought, and still there seemed to be no end to them, though a slight curve in the room was perceptible, leading her round. What if the room was built in overlapping arches so that the Headmaster had been siphoned off down a separate passage? What if there was another lurker in the mirrors, and Dumbledore had confronted it …

She stumbled onwards, almost blinded by the darkness. Yet a small voice of sanity continued in her head, counting mirror after mirror, a safe, secure mantra, enforcing a calm she could hardly feel.

She had never before felt this kind of fear, the reasoning part of her mind told her, even dementors produced a different kind, they made their prey want to curl up and give in, this fear made her want to run, to flee until she was far far away from this place. forty-nine mirrors. Why then was this? She was not a person who was normally afraid of dangerous situations, living at Hogwarts and being friends with Harry one couldn't afford it, it would be like being a sky diver with a fear of heights. She was not normally even that emotional, rigid control of herself was a discipline she had tried to instil in herself for years, and despite occasional slip ups such as the troll incident she was generally successful. Fifty-six mirrors. The most likely answer was that something was different in this case, the most obvious solution: she was, for want of a better word being enchanted. The enchantment was obviously subtle, probably initiated by examination of the wrong mirrors. The spell had also clouded her mind, only panicked counting had calmed her enough to think, and now she could feel the poison of the magic, eating away at her defences like salt on ice. The spell relied on dementor like tactics of emotional manipulation and also obviously heightened her awareness of her emotions, _therefore_ …

Hermione paused, her newly renewed stride faltering, had the last mirror been sixty two or sixty three? The fragile walls around her mind crumpled as the darkness attacked, she fell to the floor clawing at her eyes with one hand, but her wand hand carried through her last thought. When Harry had been taught by Professor Lupin how to protect himself against the dementors the previous year she had naturally persuaded him to show her how to perform it, though at the time she had had little success. However, when an emotivore, or an enchantment which relies upon emotions attacks an individual it opens up pathways in the mind and underneath the fear with which it had layered her mind in its attempt to leave her nothing more than a gibbering wreck her desperate drive to rescue Harry was still flowing strongly. The patronus charm relies on little more than unreasoning, powerful emotion, it is one of the hardest charms to master if one relies upon logic and reason, although it is much easier to cast if one is not in the presence of dementors …

'EXPECTO PATRONUM!' Hermione screamed, her body writhing as the darkness which had been creeping through her was obliterated by the shining light of a giant silvery otter, six foot long from nose to tail which curled protectively around the shaking girl. For a few seconds she lay there, letting out great sobbing breaths of relief as her mind cleared, and then slowly she got to her feet and looked around. In the light of the patronus she could clearly see the mirrors next to her, but beyond them there was nothing. It was as if she were alone in an island of light and if she were to step off the edge she would plunge into the abyss. There were no longer any blue flames. Far away, straight ahead of the mirror she was standing before there swirled a pillar of white fire. She stood at the sixty-third mirror, halfway round the room and waited.

**A/N:** I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and the story so far. Any advice or criticism (or praise if you are feeling very kind) is more than welcome.


	12. Perspective

**Disclaimer: **I didn't do it. Promise.

**A/N:** Thank you again for reading and the reviews.

I have added on another little addition to Always Expect the Unexpected, in answer to a review which pointed out that Hermione and Harry's relationship could do with a bit of building up. I have also made a few very small changes to the prologue which gives a somewhat different spin on the Pale Man and Bodmahl, I'm afraid since I had no plan when I started writing their characters have evolved and developed over time.

**Perspective**

_Quis est iste qui venit – Who is this who is coming?_

Montague Rhodes James, _Oh Whistle and I'll Come to You My Lad_

_Whiltshire, 26th of December 23:18._

Bodmahl let out a slow breath of relief as Mr Morvard lowered his wand, beckoning her forward. The short, grubby, man turned towards her, his grin revealing crooked, black teeth. She shuddered slightly at the sight of his face, it looked like a sack filled with sand which had gathered at the base leaving the upper part loose and limp. She had rarely encountered a more caricatured villain, despite the fact that Hetty and her coven were involved mainly for the thrill of the thing and the excitement of powerful magic they appeared to have an inexhaustible supply of underworld contacts. One had to wonder where they got hold of them from.

'Lady, we're in. Would you like me and Mr Corwin to lead, or would you prefer to take that role for your good self?' His unctuous tone coiled around her like oily smoke, suffocating her.

'Lead on, I believe you are better suited to the task at hand,' she replied, tilting her head with frosty politeness. Mr Morvard's smile left her itching to draw her wand and try to finish the job alone, she was certainly looking forward to the end of the job at any rate when there would be no more contractual obligations. Mr Corwin's tall, stick like figure stalked across the manicured lawn, ducking under the edge of the hole in the wards where they simmered, a pale purple in the moonlight.

'Close the wards once we're inside, Mr Morvard,' Mr Corwin wispy voice carried softly through the still night air. 'There are no defences against _outward _travel it would seem,' he continued his lips inches from Bodmahls ear.

'No matter the temptation I would ask you to _keep your distance_, Mr Corwin. Despite the dramatic enjoyment in demonstrating you unusual talent which I am sure you feel it is not appreciated.'

Mr Corwin gave a slight bow and strode off towards the gap once more. Bodmahl and a somewhat twitchy Mr Morvard followed.

Bodmahl sighed, 'What is it Morvard?'

'Just don't like this place, creepy is what it is, what kind of bird is that I ask you?'

'That is an albino peacock, it is only somewhat unusual, you are a wizard aren't you? You deal with rare creatures every day. Now, according to my information the collection is kept in the western tower.'

'Bloody weird things if you ask me anyway,' Mr Morvard muttered, spitting a wad of chewed tobacco out on the grass.

Reaching the wall of the tower Bodmahl scanned it for weaknesses, Mr Morvard and Mr Corwin came and flanked her, they must have stood there for a minute before she spoke, 'Well do you see anyway in? Because honestly, I don't.'

'Oh, was that what you was doing? Mr Morvard inquired conspiratorially, 'We thought you were just observing the beautiful view, like. We have a way in, if you would accompany us …'

* * *

_The Gaunt Shack, Little Hangleton 26th December._

Hermione stood, stock still, slowly, almost imperceptibly the light and warmth which her patronus exuded was fading, she knew that once it finally failed she would be unable to recast it, it had been cast out of desperation and in her final hope. Now that the moment had passed it would not come again. She had few options, she might wait, and hope that Dumbledore would come for her, or she could try to continue. She was half way round the room, and not a single mirror had (as far as she had seen in her rather cursory examination) any difference from the rest … save of course the number.

Given the length of her stride, how long it took and the size of the mirrors, along with her own count she was reasonably sure that she must be at the sixty-third mirror, that in itself gave her hope. That the main attack should have occurred when she reached the halfway point of the room was unlikely. That the halfway point should also be the product of seven and nine, two of the most powerful magical numbers was still more unlikely, especially as six and three were in their own right magical, numbers of guard, watch and binding all combining at this one spot. Of course it proved nothing, sixty-three was just as much the sum of sixty-three number ones added together, but then again most wizards hardly seemed to qualify as sane by muggle standards, indeed looking at the evidence one might even suggest that the greatest wizards were the least sane ones. Dumbledore, Voldemort and Grindelwald was all brilliant wizards, and were all in their way more than a touch mad. Similarly, while she found it difficult to think ill of the Founders they had their idiosyncrasies. It could hardly be denied that building a castle which changed its own topography on an irregular basis; contained unknown numbers of death traps; dangerous creatures; and happened to be located beside a massive, enchanted, forest filled with still more deadly animals was hardly the mark of a mind which had not long ago abandoned its marbles and left its trolley in the aisle of a supermarket as it went to play with a bunch of bananas.

There was of course the possibility that to try anything at the wrong mirror would be disastrous in itself. To be honest with herself Hermione had to admit that she had about a one in one hundred and twenty-six chance for all she knew of randomly picking the right mirror, it was still possible that the mirrors themselves were not the gateway, why for instance had Dumbledore told her not to look up? She wondered now if he had not known all along that the way forward was up, and left her in the hall of mirrors simply to keep her safe as he went on alone. Hermione shook her head, that way lay despair, she trusted him, she would not look up. She had entered the hall by a mirror, it would only make sense for another mirror to be the door … probably.

She looked at the mirror, now that she came to think of it, it did look somewhat like a door, but there must be some spell to unbar it, some word to open it. To leave it unwarded even one would have to be supremely arrogant, or determined to trap the explorer deep within the web of magic which pervaded this place. The light from her patronus was visibly dimmer now. With an effort she laid her hand against the glass. The surface rippled and alarmed she tried to pull back her arm, to no avail, but nothing came through, slowly she pushed against it, expecting resistance, but there was none. So, holding her breath Hermione did what she mentally acknowledged to be quite the most stupidly reckless thing in her life, she stepped through the mirror.

There was darkness, and the echoing tread of footfalls from somewhere. A voice cried out, and was silent. Hermione opened her eyes a crack, it was not just a lack of light, it was as if the darkness was malevolent.

'_Lumos_,' nothing happened.

A voice spoke, a cobweb sound, barely more than a brush against her senses, cold and filled with menacing amusement, 'I wouldn't do that if I were you.'

'Who's there?' Hermione was almost pleased that her voice did not quaver.

'No-one of consequence, I am the Watcher.'

'What are you?'

'I am the Watcher.'

'And you watch over this place?'

The answer was tinged with sorrow, 'Oh yes, for so long, I haven't seen a mortal being in _many, many_ years, or an immortal come to that. I'm so bored, so lonely …'

Hermione felt a twinge of sympathy, perhaps whatever this thing was she ought to help it, 'Is there anything I can do to help.'

'How very kind you are, little one, the answer is unfortunately no. I am here to watch, and while your presence will relieve my boredom, there is nothing you can do to help except play the part I set you well. For I am _so _hungry, however, I want to play before I feed.'

'Feed …?'

'On you.'

'Oh,' there was not much Hermione felt she could really say to that. She could perhaps be excused, for being told by a faceless darkness that it wants to toy with you before it feeds on you may leave the best of us speechless.

'Now,' the voice began, filled with a smug satisfaction shifting register as it spoke, 'the rules then: you will walk forwards, there is only one path, the only exit is at the place where _it _is hidden. If you run, except when I tell you, I will kill you; if you look round I will kill you; if you stop I will kill you; if you fight … well you get the idea. I will do my best to make you run, to make you turn around, you must resist, if you manage to reach the end then you may survive.'

'You say you, haven't seen a human in a long time? Why are you doing this? Couldn't I help you escape here, if you help me I will help you,' Hermione pleaded outwardly, meanwhile her brain was spinning, if the creature spoke the truth then it had not seen Dumbledore.

'It has been two hundred years of your world since I met a human. The one who bound me here was less than human by the time I met him. As to why I'm doing this … well apart from being bound here by a magic you couldn't possibly break I enjoy it. I am a creature of torment and darkness, it is my essence, my beginning and my end.'

'Why haven't you killed me if that is what you are bound to do?'

'Fortunately for you are a child, I have no orders concerning children, I may do as I like, before you die I would like to congratulate you on getting this far, I am amazed at your luck.'

'What guarantee do I have that you won't kill me anyway? ' Hermione asked, if only she could play for time, maybe Dumbledore might be able to reach her.

The voice chuckled, the sound was like dry grass in the wind, 'None. Now go.'

Flaming torches flickered into life along the walls casting shifting shadows over the walls, shadows cast by nothing. Hermione took a deep breath and began to walk, slowly placing one foot in front of another. Oddly it wasn't that frightening, admittedly she shied away from the shadows, but the air was warm and there was no longer the all consuming terror of the mirror room. The floor was flat and even, and running her hand along the wall she could feel smooth, dry, rock, it ran straight and true without deviation. It was a remarkable change from the damp air of the mirror room.

She was almost relaxing when the singing began, a high wailing, the words unclear and yet instantly recognisable though the tune was one she had never heard before:

_'__Like one that on a lonesome road  
Doth walk in fear and dread,  
And having once turned round walks on,  
And turns no more his head;  
Because he knows a frightful fiend  
Doth close behind him tread_.'

'Looks like the last human it met liked Coleridge then,' Hermione muttered, the vain attempt at stoicism doing nothing to lift her sinking spirits. The words vibrated through her. Would the creature know if she turned? It sounded as if it were far back down the passage, she could just sneak a look … she shook her head dispelling the thoughts, there was no point in lowering her chances.

The flames blinked out, and for a second she almost broke her stride.

'Tut, tut, that was a little close wasn't it?' The voice giggled, high pitched, childlike.

Hermioine kept walking, slower now, testing each footstep as quickly as she could without ceasing her movement.

'Now listen,' it was confiding, ingratiating, 'I want you to succeed, to see your young man again, your friends, and while I can't make this too easy I'll give you fair warning, you're coming up to a gap in the floor. It's quite a large gap, so you can have a run up, I wouldn't advise that you fall in … or of course that you hesitate …'

The flames flickered back into life around her, though lower now, only just shedding enough life to see by. As she continued to walk Hermione tried again to cast _lumos_, but still nothing happened, her attempts at the bluebell flames and a nightvision spell had precisely as much effect. She sighed, obviously there must be wards against the use of any magic in the area, impressive certainly, she had never heard of such wards, but unfortunately not something she was currently able to take delight in.

A chasm came into sight, a vast gap in the floor at least thirty feet across lay in front of her, a single spur of rock spanning just over two thirds of it. She would have to take a running leap. She gripped her wand tightly, walking out onto the narrow branch of rock. Her eyes glanced briefly down. Far, far below her light glinted off wet rock, she felt her heart tense, suddenly beating faster, but she could not stop.

_ Why did it have to be heights? Why not snakes? I don't mind snakes! Why not dragons?_ Hermione thought desperately to the universe. A few pieces of flaking rock crumbled under her foot falling away into the void. It was five seconds until she heard them hit the bottom. She clenched her jaw, her footsteps speeding up even as the rock narrowed, she needed to have as much of a run up as possible. Her shoes hit the stone with dull thud, ten feet, her legs pumped up and down faster and faster, five feet, jump … at the last second she leapt, but her feet left the rock awkwardly and she flew across the gap knowing that she would miss.

She thumped into the lip of the other side, crying out in pain as her breast bone and ribs smashed into the unforgiving surface, tears forced out of her eyes. Her wand was knocked out of her hand by the impact and rolled away across the floor. If some bones weren't broken then she would certainly have a massive bruise. Her hands gripped onto the stone as best she could, for a second she slid back, one of her nails tearing blood seeping down her finger before she managed to stop herself. Gripping her fingers as tightly against the stone as she could she began to try to heave herself back up. Her arms were already beginning to feel the strain, she _really_ had to become more physically fit Harry too for that matter, brains were all well and good, but they couldn't do everything.

Her attempts to heave herself back onto the rock were having little effect, it would not be long before she fell. The bottom of a long, brown, robe came into sight, it was speckled with moss and mildew.

'I think you have failed, little one,' a long fingers with skin the colour of the space between the stars reached out and gripped her wrist. The hand was so cold that it burnt her flesh and the grip was harder than granite. It lifted her up as easily as if she weighed less than a doll.

The face of the _thing_ before her was impossible to see beyond the outline, for while there may have been features the uniform darkness of its flesh left nothing but a hole in space, less than nothing. Only its eyes were visible, specks of pale, white, starlight deep within invisible eyesockets. The flaming torches dimmed around it.

'I would consider running the hunt for longer, but the old one is drawing close, and I would prefer to deal with him without distractions. I am sorry that I could not drag it out, fear always improves the flavour …'

It reached up with one impossibly long arm dragging a claw like finger over Hermione's cheek. She looked down at it and swung one leg onto its shoulder, using the footing as leverage to kick it as hard in the jaw (or where she guessed the jaw must be) as possible. It let out a shriek, which might have been pain, or it might have been anger, flinging her aside, up the corridor so that she skidded over the stone. She got to her knees spitting blood from her mouth. Her wand was only a few feet away and she reached out and gripped it, not that it would do much good.

* * *

_Whiltshire_,_ 26th December 23:53._

Bodmahl, stepped through the remains of the last of the automatons, ripping a heavy bastard-blade from its visor as she walked on through the maze of exhibits. She brushed a few pieces of twisted metal off her robe as she scanned the shadowy aisles, Morvard and Corwin slipped in beside her, standing on either side. The animated suits of armour had proved amusing protections, though they had cost them rather too much time, and damaged several of the artefacts, it was a pity to have damaged such priceless objects, but unfortunately necessary, she reflected.

'Spread out, look for a cauldron, it should bear pearls around the rim, I suspect it will be hard to miss,' with a wave of her hand the two mercenaries vanished like shadows into the dark recesses of the building.

Cursing the darkness Bodmahl ripped a curtain away from the wall, hopefully the star light would at least lend a more wholesome atmosphere to the place. As soon as the starlight entered the room pale lines of glowing silver ran like water up the arches of the tower room filling it with a faint, ghostly light. They spread out across the walls until it appeared that she was walking through a forest of moonlight. She rolled her wand between her fingers, swinging her head from side to side at each creak of floorboard and noise.

At last there was a soft cry from one of her accomplices, somewhere in the centre of the room and she set off towards the noise, slipping soundlessly amid ancient weapons, rare tomes and beautiful paintings. When she reached the centre of the room she found a Morvard and Corwin waiting for her standing by a wide plinth on which rested the cauldron.

It was incredible, the brim must have been eight feet across, made from a dark metal, perhaps iron she guessed, moonstones and pearls the sized of her fist lined the rim and four feet in the shape of a wolf's paws held it up. Shadows rippled across its surface like waves, making it shimmer somewhere between blue and black, the entire thing radiated power.

'Well, Lady it seems that the job is almost complete,' said Mr Corwin, his smile almost lupine.

'Certainly …' she began before he cut her off.

'And so, you see, we have no more use for you. You may leave if you wish, but as long as you do not interfere, I cannot honestly say that we or our employers care.'

'Your employers?' She questioned, circling around the plinth as she tried to decide on a plan of attack.

'Why certainly, you did not think that _dear _Hetty has been working all this time simply that you could claim whatever prise you desire? She has always known that the day must come when your search must uncover some gem such as this, and now she is claiming her reward,' Mr Morvard replied, his slight nasal twang standing out more than ever.

Bodmahl's eyebrows rose, 'Is this really it? Her aims were simply for riches? How extremely uninspired,' she barely managed to suppress the urge to bare her teeth in a feral snarl, she was going to enjoy this.

'Uninspired as it may be she will have the cauldron, and we will have our pick from this room. Now, Mr Morvard if you would be so kind as to shrink the cauldron we may begin,' continued Mr Corwin, his wispy tones clear in the dusty silence of the room.

'_Diminuendo_,' Mr Morvard muttered, a thin jet of sky-blue light hitting the cauldron sinking into the metal near one of the pearls. For a second or two nothing occurred, and then, like paper catching light the jewel began to shine, a soft light spreading from its core, then another caught, and another. Soon the entire ring of gemstones was alight, the light merging into a single ring of fire. A soft laugh came from one of the aisles approaching the cauldron. Out of the shadows stepped nine, tall, terrible women, melting from the darkness. They were as identical as reflections, each robed and cloaked in black velvet, with a choker of pearls around their necks. Their hair was raven and their eyes were pale as the winter sun, by the side of each stalked a mighty wolf.

'We are the guardians of the cauldron, we have been awoken. We shall take the sacrifice,' the women spoke as one, their voices echoing in the vast chamber.

Bodmahl, stepped back towards a large statue of Pan, sweeping the sword around her, scratching a circle to create at least some small barrier between her and whatever was to happen. From the aisles the women advanced on the pair of mercenaries, the wolves by their sides, teeth bared. Morvard and Corwin backed towards the cauldron, wands drawn.

'Now, listen hear ladies, we didn't realise …'

'It does not matter what you did not realise, you have acted,' the statement was firm, unmoving.

The two crooks touched the cauldron. Mr Morvard noticed first, trying to turn to see what it was, but his hand and coat stuck against it, fusing to the metal.

'Mr Corwin!' He shrieked, 'help me!'

Corwin turned to grab hold of him, but his hands seemed to fuse to Mr Morvard in turn, he cried out in anguish, but to no avail.

'You have trespassed against the edicts of the gods and must face the punishment,' the women spoke again, their voices loud as thunder. Bodmahl closed her eyes and covered her ears, crouching on the floor. There were two screams and then nothing, after a few seconds of silence she looked up, a dark, blue smoke was quickly dissipating, there was no sign of Messrs Morvard and Corwin. The nine women stood before her, her circle of protection had been blown away, the area where the scratch had scored the stone was smooth and clear.

'Come, child of the Ever Heir, the Walking Man. We have been awaiting you these many years,' only the central one spoke now, though it was no less disconcerting, her pale eyes stared straight past Bodmahl as if she hardly existed.

'I have been sent to request that you give the Pale Man, one you call the Ever Heir, the use of the cauldron to return one to this world,' she answered as steadily as she could manage, it was not often that she felt disconcerted, but these women were managing it.

'And what does he offer in exchange? It is a large boon he asks, for we know the one he seeks to raise.'

'He offers you sport, and blood too when the war begins …'

The speaker cut her off, 'We have no need of blood, but sport we will consider, we shall confer.' They stepped back, and though no word passed between them it was plain that they were conversing. After a minute or two they turned to Bodmahl again, 'the contest shall be simple, you will search for the tower of glass, where you will find the cauldron. You may begin your hunt upon Midsummer's day. A door shall be opened for you at the circle of the Nine Ladies. Start but a day sooner and you shall never find the cauldron again. We shall select your competition as best pleases us.'

'Thank you, your highnesses,' Bodmahl replied gruffly, 'I shall convey your message.'

'It shall be our pleasure …' the women had begun to fade from view, the light of the stones in the cauldron dimming. A breath of wind blew through the sealed room and women and cauldron alike thinned like mist and were no more.

Bodmahl sighed in relief and began to make her way out of the tower before apparating away. She needed rest, the damage which had been caused that night would certainly be reported in the news, but it was almost impossible that it would be linked to her, and it did not unduly worry her. She only hoped that she knew what Jonathan knew what he was doing making bargains with such beings, even though he was one of them such deals had been known to go horribly wrong.

* * *

_The Gaunt Shack, Little Hangleton 26th December_

The demon twisted its head from side to side, as if to crack the neck joints it evidently did not possess. Hermione crouched ready, holding her wand in her hand as if it were a dagger. It is a little known fact that most wands are at least initially bound with charms to prevent damage generally bound to its first owner's life, a hand-me down wand is relatively easy to snap, on the whole though only powerful magic can destroy a wizard or witch's first wand, using it as a hand to hand weapon can be less foolish than it may seem. Hermione was well aware of this fact, not that she was deceived by any misconception that this would truly give her the slightest chance, but then Gryffindors have rarely cared.

Gryffindors are also renowned for their luck, a possibly over exaggerated trait which comes down to the fact that when you _keep _throwing yourselves into fights some of you have to get lucky sometimes. That at the moment that the demon charged, its claws swinging for the space where a second before Hermoine's head had been, and that at that moment Hermione had temporarily collapsed as she felt another mind enter her own resulting in her avoiding decapitation could only be ascribed to this luck. She picked herself up, almost instantaneously, spinning round to face the abomination. A razor sharp claw of night slashed the air in front of her face and slamming into the wall, burying itself several inches into the wall. The effort to rip the talon out of the rock left the creature's defence wide, Hermione lunged, driving the vinewood wand straight and true into the creature's eye.

The blistering scream sent her flying, literally tumbling head over heels down the passage, until she was lying mere inches away from the chasm. She lay there gasping even as she heard it begin to move down the passage towards her, the wand clattered out onto the floor, evidently torn free. Hermione rolled onto her knees, facing it, preparing to try and trip it into the gaping abyss. Her eyes widened.

'Get back Lilin, demon of the night. Flee now and leave this girl! Her mind is not your play thing,' Dumbledore, his eyes flashing with anger, wand drawn, advanced down the passage towards the creature. It turned towards him, holding out its arms beseechingly.

'Please, give me the child and I shall let you pass unharmed, I will help you … please …'

It leapt forwards towards Dumbledore, its arms multiplying as it moved, the monk-like robe falling away from it. There was a flash of light and it flew backwards, a net of light enclosing it, slowly contracting, white hot magic burning into its flesh, for a few seconds it writhed, and then with a faint wail it was gone.

Dumbledore walked forwards and closing his eyes gently pressed his wand tip against Hermione's forehead, 'Awake.' The world twisted.

Hermione blinked. She was standing inside a musty hut, Dumbledore beside her. Glancing behind her she saw the back of a wooden door, light filtering between the cracks. The dirty windows were blocking most of the light, but there was enough to see by. A thick layer of dust lay on each surface. Her chest no longer ached and her wand was in her hand.

'Erm … Professor … what was that? It seemed to dampen magic, I couldn't use any …'

'That was an ancient demon, a lilin, a master manipulator of the mind and emotions. It was part of a double illusion if I am not very much mistaken. It managed to quite convincingly trap us in a shared illusion, which is to say that the mirror room was no more than a trick, before siphoning you off into a trap within your own mind. Hence the fact that you could not use magic. Had I not worked out the truth of the situation it would have first feasted upon you, tricking you into death within your own mind before possessing your body and devouring me, body and soul. Fortunately you held it off much longer than it expected.'

'But we're fine now, yes?'

'Temporarily at any rate. Now I must request that you remain silent and still, I am not certain what further traps there may remain,' and with a quick motion for her to follow him he set off through the few rooms of the house, peering around carefully though his half-moon spectacles. At last they came to what must have once been the bedroom.

'Miss Granger, what might you suspect if you came across an extradimensional building, maintained by magic in which the magic of one section was the mirror image of the magic beside it on either side?'

'I would suspect that something was being hidden.'

'Precisely, now if you would just stand back …' he scored a few quick marks in the air and there was a flare of red light and in the centre of the room a floating orb, perhaps four inches across and made of a dark, green, rock, something like malachite, shimmered into view.

The orb spun slowly in the air, upon it in letters of silver were written a few simple words:

_To reveal my gift name that which is so fragile that even saying its name may break it._

Hermione opened her mouth to give the answer, but stopped frowning, Dumbledore seemed to have reached the same conclusion. The riddle seemed at such odds with the rest of the protections, it made no sense. The one who had placed it here obviously knew the answer, so why would he or she leave a clue for others? A riddle the answer to which was_ silence_ …

Hermione almost smiled at the irony of the trap. _Igniscripti, _she incanted silently, mentally thanking the other champions for spending some time with Harry on silent casting, drawing her wand through the air in flaming letters:

_I presume we are not to speak?_

Dumbledore smiled:

_I believe so, I suspect that as with the door this is a barrier of power, though not as severe._

He began to move his wand in slow circles, linking them together with looping flourishes. Walking around the orb he continued, silently, as he continued to draw symbols until it was entirely surrounded. With a single semi circle he stepped back, expectantly. Nothing happened. Dumbledore frowned, beginning again, new symbols, some of which hovered in the air before sinking into the orb. Still nothing happened.

Hermione almost gasped as the answer came to her. She reached out a hand to brush Dumbledore's sleeve, awkwardly stopping before actually coming into contact, although he stopped, looking at her attentively. She pointed her wand firmly at the orb, _silencio_, the word echoed through her mind, vibrating through her and emerging from her wand in a near invisible stream of magic. For a few seconds nothing happened and then the stone began to slide into itself, folding inwards until there was only a single hemisphere floating, on which rested a plan gold ring with a black stone set in the centre, a circle, a triangle and a single straight line carved into the surface. She smiled in triumph.

Dumbledore carefully pulled a glove onto his left hand, leaving his wand hand free, and then reached out, neatly plucking the ring from its mount. He swung round passing Hermione and the feeling of exultation and triumph passed from her, she felt faint, an overwhelming sense of _evil _pure and unadulterated washed over her. He began to move it towards his pocket as he turned to go. Then, suddenly, a vague, glassy look came over his face. He stopped, moving the ring towards the fingers of his right hand. Hermione whirled towards him, fighting down the feeling of faintness, shouting before she could stop herself, too far away to knock it away from her hand, 'No!'

The air shuddered, dust falling from the ceiling. Dumbledore's eyes snapped back to reality. He closed his gloved fist around the ring and grabbed Hermione with his other hand, pulling her along as behind them the room began to burst into flames. He pulled her out of the way as a beam plummeted to the floor inches from them, bursting into flames as it crashed down.

'Hold on to me as tightly as you can,' he cried over the boom of falling wood and the crackle of the rising fire. '_Vaporo_,' Dumbledore roared, their bodies dissolving into a thick glowing, white smoky substance. They dived through the flames, bursting through the door and out into the frozen air of the the late December afternoon.

Even as their bodies reformed Dumbledore turned, slamming the door shut behind them and staggered away before leaning against an old stone gatepost, nearly buried in the hedge, coughing deeply. Hermione lay, for a little, trembling in the snow, trying to regain feeling in her limbs. The sensation that they were no more than vapour was almost over powering, they felt weaker than jelly. The cold soon forced her up, however, and she cast a quick warming charm over the pair of them to keep the bite of the cold at bay. Dumbledore was still leaning, his chest heaving, on the tall stone, his hand gripped tightly around the ring.

'Sir,' she asked tentatively, 'are you well enough to travel?'

'Give me a moment, Miss Granger,' he wheezed, 'just a moment.'

_Hogwarts, 26th December, dusk._

Ron was playing chess with Luna by one of the bay windows of the castle, which was to say that Luna was reading a large book (titled _Three Hundred Spells You Really Ought Not To Know_) and moving her pieces without looking at the board while Ron struggled to come up with a way to beat her, somehow she always seemed to move her pieces into just the wrong position for him.

As Luna gave a somewhat undignified snort Ron paused in his game, 'Something funny in there?'

'This spell, _I _can't imagine why anyone who would have created it,' she bubbled, he rarely saw her happier than when reading a personality trait which she shared with Hermione he reflected, though of course like all their shared characteristics not one he was going to mention to either witch.

'Well, what is it Luna?' He asked, frowning at the board, if only he could get rid of that bishop …

'It stimulates certain areas of the brain producing euphoria and belief that you are without a doubt completely wonderful, unjustly wronged, beautiful, popular and so on and so forth, I just can't imagine why anyone would want to use it.'

'Why not, it sounds great?' Luna frowned, evidently not quite understanding the question, it obviously sounded incredibly dull to her to feel that one was perfect. 'I mean, what are the side-effects?' Ron corrected himself, talking to Luna had infinitely improved his patience.

'Well along with the fact that you have corresponding lows your imagination seems to be massively impaired, you start to think that your name is Mary or Marty or something equally drab. Why would anyone name their child that? It's torture, I suspect that expectant parents attract more wrackspurts, perhaps Daddy ought to do an article on it … Anyway they should use nice names like Idrus, Cleremond, Xenophilius … fun names.'

'Is that it? They start to believe they're called something else?' He moved a knight, putting her king in check.

'What? Oh the spell?' She frowned at the page, her hand moving absent-mindedly and nudging her queen into action to take a pawn and defend her bishop, 'Well it also sends you completely mad and eventually you either go on a murderous rampage or you get locked up, still I don't suppose it would be entirely pointless to use it on an enemy … oh I wouldn't do that move Ronald.'

Ron groaned, rubbing his temples, somehow playing chess with Luna was like playing chess with himself, with a version of himself who wasn't egging one side on to victory. He shifted one of the wizard pieces forward, it was perhaps a fault of his upbringing that he had never realised that muggle chess unlike wizard chess only had sixteen pieces on each side instead of twenty and had as such taught Harry somewhat inaccurate rules as far as the muggle game went.

He glanced out of the window and gasped, 'Is that Hermione, and Professor Dumbledore?' Luna looked up from the book.

'Mmm, yes,' she looked back down again.

'But Hermione seems to be helping Dumbledore to walk, what happened?'

'How should I know? I think we ought to go to the hospital wing though, Hermione will probably be there in about,' she glanced at her watch, 'fourteen minutes.'

Ron hurriedly packed up the game, tipping the pieces, despite their cries of protest into a box. As they set off together down the passage Ron blinked realising something, 'Luna, how did looking at your watch tell you how long it would be till they got to the infirmary? That doesn't make sense …'

'Hurry up Ronald, or we'll be late,' was all the reply the usually dreamy Luna gave. It was noticeable Ron thought that the fewer people there were around the less dreamy she became.

'I will be fine, I assure you, Miss Granger. It was merely the effort of performing a side-along _vapour _spell along with the smoke. The spell is not simple and when used upon two simultaneously it requires a great deal of concentration. Now that the withering curse has been removed from the ring it is perfectly safe,' _apart from the horcrux_, Dumbledore added silently to himself,'go to the hospital wing and let Poppy inspect you, I do not think you have been harmed, but today was trying. I will deal with Professor Morgan.'

Hermione nodded reluctantly and set off up the great staircase of the Turris Magnus towards the hospital wing. Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment once she was out of sight, leaning against a wall. Straightening himself he began to march swiftly towards the teacher's rooms.

Shortly after knocking on the door to Professor Morgan's apartments the door swung open. Professor Morgan, draped in a dark, velvet mantle stood in the doorway.

'Headmaster, back so soon?'

'I have retrieved your price,' he stated gravely, tossing the ring over to her. For a moment she bared her teeth in a savage grin of triumph, she reached out her hand to snatch it from the air. Yet, as soon as it brushed her skin she shrieked, knocking it aside, cradling her hand as if blistered. A shuddering breath of despair ripped itself from her lips.

'Is something the matter, Madam?'

'Take that _thing_ away from me! Destroy it, obliterate it!'

'Will you still uphold your end of the bargain? I have done as you asked.'

Her face twisted in an ugly mask of anger and disgust, '_Yes_,' she spat out the word as it were a foul oath. 'Give me an hour or two and I will come to you and tell you what I know. The stone is yours, I only ask that you destroy it, I cannot,' her scowl deepened, 'I cannot, I do not have the strength or the means.'

'It would be my pleasure. I would have asked you to destroy the thing which dwells within it had you taken it,' he smiled, eyes twinkling as he picked up the ring once more, _two hallows, I could yet unite them … the Master of Death, able to force Voldemort from this world without sacrifice … able to bring back Ariena. _He shook his head,_ no, that is an old man's foolish dream, I am not the one for this._ 'I bid you farewell for now then, I will see you in my office in a couple of hours.'

'You're late,' announced Luna as Hermione pushed open the doors to the hospital wing.

'Sorry, what?' Hermione shook her head, bemused.

'You should have been here two minutes and thirty-one seconds ago. I'm very disappointed in this performance,' Luna continued as if explaining something to a child, 'but don't worry, no harm done, Ron's almost managed to set up the chess board as it was before anyway.'

'That's … great Luna, you don't happen to know where Madame Pomfrey is do you?'

'In Hogwarts,' replied Luna amiably.

Hermione paused, searching for words, 'Thanks.' She half walked half stumbled across to the door of the matron's office and knocked on the door. Madame Pomfrey's head popped out around it.

'What's the matter gir …' she broke off seeing the state of Hermione, her hair singed, blood trickling from cuts and bruises, a look of complete exhaustion on her face. A large splinter, perhaps six inches long was buried in her shoulder. 'My dear girl, quickly, get over to the beds. Boy,' she called to Ron, 'stop hanging around there like a dead fish and come and help.'

A few charms later Hermione was patched and cleaned up and lying comfortably in one of the beds.

'Now, I expect you to stay here overnight, you've been subjected to very high levels of magic today and I don't know what effect that might have on the healing process, sometimes it helps sometimes it harms, so I want to keep you under observation. I'm going to leave a bell beside your bedside so that you can call me if you need anything in the night. I'm just going to fetch a sleeping draught and then you two can be off,' Madame Pomfrey finished off, glaring at Ron and Luna.

'Yes, ma'am,' Luna answered politely as the matron bustled out of the room.

'Thank you so much for helping,' murmured Hermione drowsily, she was unsure that she would actually manage to keep herself awake long enough to take the sleeping draught.

' 's fine,' Ron shrugged, 'what were you up to anyway? Was it about Harry? Is he okay?'

'Don't know, Headmaster dealing with it. Need to rescue him, setting off soon. He'll be back …' she drifted off into sleep seconds before Madame Pomfrey came back. Shooing Ron and Luna out of the hospital wing Madame Pomfrey pulled the covers up over Hermione, leaving the potion in its bottle on the bedside table alongside some water. Putting out the torches with her wand she went back into her office to finish off some paperwork, honestly she wished that Professor Snape would at least try to make sure Longbottom didn't suffer so many accidents, it was as if the man were constantly sabotaging him.

**A/N: **Well I hope no-one is too disappointed in this chapter. I realise that the protections in the Gaunt shack were rather similar in their effects, but I didn't want to get rid of the lilin and at the same time I had to find something which while it might be a serious threat was not instantly deadly to a fifteen year old witch, even if she is a prodigy. On the point about the wands it is more a throwaway point than anything, since while one might think that wands are relatively fragile apart from Harry's wand the only ones I can think of getting broken are Ron's hand-me down wand, Neville's father's wand. The Elder Wand, is not of course broken in the book, though simultaneously it is a notoriously mercenary wand which happily switches master.

I am working on my concept of Luna, she may seem somewhat tame for the moment, but I hope to really be able to get inside her head with a bit of thought. She will not be quite the completely nuts version which so many authors have, I appreciate stories with that version and enjoy them, but I fear I would do her and them a disservice by emulating that style.


	13. Raiders, Rescuers and Rita

**Disclaimer: **I didn't write Harry Potter.

**Rescuers, Raiders and Rita**

_And as I sit and talk to you I see your face go white  
This shadow hanging over me  
Is no trick of the light  
The spectre on my back will soon be free  
The dead have come to claim a debt from thee _

The Pogues, Turkish Song of the Damned

_December the 27th the witching hour_

Jonathan sat, his eyes closed, counting his breaths. Three thousand, three hundred and forty. He probed his teeth experimentally with his tongue, was it not incredible how you constantly fail to notice the little indentations, ridges and indeed the entire texture of your own mouth? Well that is until you were _utterly_, _exceptionally_, _fantastically _bored out of your skull. Three thousand, three hundred and forty-one. Why, oh why had he actually bothered to try and do this? There were so many more things that he could be up to, the boy would probably have had children, he could have used them for his purposes. He grimaced bitterly, it was not as if he had had much choice really, the oath compelled him to perform his duty no matter how much he delayed.

Still why had he not left Bodmahl to babysitting and gone off himself? He could have _done _something. It had been a long time since he had last burnt anything down, he mused, anything major that is, maybe that could be fun, when had the last one been in fact? Probably 1904 he decided, it had been a bit of a mistake if he was honest, Ålesund had been one of his favourite places to visit, though it had been a long time since he had last been. At least he had learnt not to start duels in factories containing cows. Was that three thousand, three hundred and forty-three or forty-four? Ah, to hell with it. If only the gates were open, then he would be able to pay the hells a visit, for some reason the underworld despite all the bad press hosted the best parties. Still, it would not be long now, he could almost taste the freedom, the moment when the doors swung open, when the rain would be a doorway, when he could walk roads under suns which never burned …

For now though he had to be patient. He tapped his foot on the ground. If only it weren't for the gloom of this infernal cavern then at least he would have been able to read, but his only real chance at any constant light would be sitting next to the boy. The chains had been glowing constantly for the last twenty minutes, it was to say the least an impressive demonstration of raw power and determination.

There was little point in even trying to sift through the child's mind any more. The boy knew hardly anything, although there was a prophecy which disturbed him somewhat, and an image of a young, plain, witch with brown hair and eyes. He had struggled to place her, but he could not work out where she was from except the boy's memories. Even if the boy had known something the repeated sessions of legilimancy, as Jonathan sought for any weakness among those who he knew he would eventually be forced to face, might well cause permanent brain damage. Not that he would have really cared he assured himself, had it not been for the fact that the boy was evidently key in suppressing some new 'Dark Lord' or other. In any case the shredding the boy's defences had endured seemed to have forced them to regrow, stronger than before even, rather like a hazel or a hydra in some ways. It was odd, but not entirely unexpected. The last time he had checked they were harder than cast iron, not impenetrable by any means but certainly much stronger than before.

Jonathan shifted, drumming his fingers against his thigh. It was almost worthwhile considering teaching the boy magic, he would at least prove a _captive _audience. He groaned at his own joke. Still, once Bodmahl arrived back he could go and do something at least, his research had turned up a way to prompt Merlin's descendant into hastening his arrival, and it would be somewhat more subtle than simply sending a note. It had been unfortunate he realised that he had left no real clue as to his whereabouts, not that he would admit as much to Bodmahl, she would never let him hear the end of it.

Come to think of it where was she? He stood up stretching, a few joints clicked. He strode across the cavern, leaving the dripping darkness and ascended the passage into the night air. It was so cold that it almost hurt, dry and crisp. There was no snow here, they were too close to the sea for it to settle for long and the river had not frozen. The night was silent, many of the small creatures which at other times of year might have made the bushes rustle were hiding in the warmth of their dens, mates curled around one another. Here and there perhaps an otter or a fox hunted, but they were too far away to hear.

The silence stretched onwards, and he felt the joy of being alive bubble through his veins. He stretched his hands skyward, revelling in the wind on his face. Even magic could not rival the sheer _power _he felt as life pounded through him, the feeling that he could do anything, challenge anyone, it was glorious. It was human, he realised, the undying do not feel the joy of life for it means nothing to them. He had spent too long among these folk, though he would miss this feeling once it was gone. There was another thing, he had _feelings_, would his people even recognise him as one of them? He shook his head, dispelling such thoughts, they mattered little, even when he had been able to walk among them he had cared little, he had always walked alone, others fell by the wayside.

'Enjoying the night air?'

The quiet question caught him by surprise, 'I didn't hear you arrive, I am impressed.'

'The reason is quite simple, I arrived first, I just hadn't moved when you came out. You should pay more attention to your surroundings,' Bodmahl's voice was light-hearted, almost unnaturally so.

'Well done, Bridget,' he said, knowing full well the scowl which had just crossed her face, 'your task is accomplished then?'

'Yes,' the curt answer proved that the use of his pet name for her had ruffled her feathers.

'And the help?'

'They were rewarded beyond their dreams.'

'I hope they are satisfied. Would you mind taking the watch for a little? I have a task to complete.'

'I'm tired, I need to rest. I only came to report, and drop off this, I picked it up earlier, I thought it might interest you …'

He gave a grimace, though it turned to a smile as he took a book from her outstretched hand. Though the title was invisible in the faint moonlight he could still feel the worn leather under his hand, the promise of untold stories, 'Don't worry, go, rest. The boy will be safe for a few hours. It isn't even as if we don't want him taken. How about a game of chess later though? Or perhaps cards?'

'Oh by the way, Hetty betrayed us. I will deal with her soon.'

'Are you sure? You've known the woman for years, I thought she was your friend …'

'Precisely, I shall do it. Good night,' and with a smile and a crack she was gone. He turned on his heel and in a flurry of leaves he vanished.

It was not a good night for Jack Oscar, a student at UCL. It had, as far as he remembered, begun quite well. A few drinks down the pub, a girl who seemed reasonably interested in him. All pretty good really, he was working on bringing her round to the idea of coming back to his flat with him when her boyfriend turned up and challenged him to a fight in the alley behind the pub. Jack had, he privately admitted, had a few too many and so he accepted. He had never been much of a fighter, predictably when one of his rival's blows struck his stomach he began to vomit, a mixture of vodka and half chewed chicken painting the street, from the dirty grey cobbles to the smoke blacked bricks.

His rival, Declan Lewis, was at six foot four and half as broad across the shoulder he was an imposing figure who under any other circumstances Jack would preferred to run from as fast as possible. Declan looked around at his friends, cheering him on, half in drunken stupor, _fight, fight, fight_, the words echoed through his head. He grinned at them, raising one hand to smooth the short bristles of hair on his head before waving it in the air, urging them on to further cheering as his opponent coughed up yet another load of vomit, turned purple by the neon lights of a nearby club. This _boy_ was pathetic, he thought, and an idiot for trying to steal _his _girl. The proprietorial nature of his thoughts which would have made a feminist white with rage were entirely lost upon him. Time to teach him a lesson, he lined up for a kick, a couple of blows to the gut and a broken jaw would teach the prat.

Leaves swirled along the London alley, a nearby streetlamp flickered. A man stepped out from the thin air, the sudden breeze settling with him. Old, wet, winter, leaves which had not been there a second before floated around among the bins. He was, it seemed, reading a book.

'Damn,' muttered the man quietly as the wind ruffled the pages, Declan's companions took a single look at him and ran for it, drunken men, like animals can sometimes tell when something is truly wrong with the world. Jack was still too occupied with retching to move.

Declan looked at the stranger, blearily focusing on him. He was tall, an equal for Declan himself, but gaunt with piercing eyes and quaintly dressed in a dark, green, robe. There is a great deal of primitive posturing and competition built into humans, as with most other creatures, particularly those who are heavily laden with testosterone, it was unfortunate for Declan that he was one such

'Who are you?' He slurred, 'ye looking at me?' The question was more of a grunt than anything else.

The stranger surveyed the tall, broad shouldered man, whose chest and muscles were straining against a too small T-shirt emblazoned with a flag of St. George. He raised one eyebrow before replying with icy politeness, 'I am known as Jonathan Holland. Don't by any means let me detain you. Your friends seem to have moved on, perhaps you ought to follow them.' He turned back to his book.

'Are you looking at me?'

'Do I appear to have eyes in the top of my head?,' the stranger replied, apparently oblivious to the threat. He began to walk forward as if to pass Declan, still peering at the book in the poor light of the streetlamps. In the background Jack carefully unbent, wiping away the last of the vomit from around his mouth.

Without further ado Declan lunged for the stranger, his blood was up and the idiot had failed to deliver the respect he was due. The blow connected solidly and sent the stranger spinning round, the book flying from his hand. The second hit the man's jaw square on and left him pressed against the alley wall. It came as a surprise to Declan when his third blow met nothing but air, or more correctly when it met nothing but air where the man had been and instead carried on, crashing into the brick wall.

'Are you certain about this? I really think you ought to stop, I would prefer it if no-one was hurt,' the man said, calm and unfazed as he spat a gobbet of blood to the ground, Declan roared with pain and began a whirlwind of blows. 'I suppose that is a no.'

Declan's attack seemed almost certain to land a hit, and yet for his opponent easily leant out of the path of his fist. The blow overreached and Declan stumbled, slipping on the leaves which had so recently appeared. He crashed to the ground and lay winded and virtually unconscious. Jonathan looked mildly surprised.

'I warned you, you are exceptionally fortunate that I both have no desire to kill and that I have a use for you. I suggest that you look upon this as a lesson in life.'

Jonathan reached down, took Declan's wrist in his hand and squeezed, the bones splintered, pulverised. A quick blow to the temple rendered the thuggish lad unconscious. He turned to Jack who was attempting to edge away up the alley silently.

'If I were you I would forget that tonight ever happened. Go home and sleep it off.'

Jack nodded, turning on his heel and running for it.

'Sometimes, I wonder if there isn't someone out there putting me in these situations,' muttered Jonathan as he looked down dispassionately at the young man's unconscious body. Picking Declan up and slinging him across his shoulder he set off towards St. Mungo's. Although it was somewhat irritating that there had been humans in the alley it did at least provide him with an excuse for why he required entrance into the hospital. He was certainly not going to tell Bodmahl that had it not been for a few wet leaves a young man had come close to having the better of him by pure chance, he reflected. Passing into the shabby, run down warehouse which hid the hospital he made his way to the reception desk, glancing at the floor plan.

'What seems to be the problem sir?' Asked the nurse without looking up, she was filling in a crossword and did not seem particularly interested in any problems he might be experiencing.

'I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I was attacked by this muggle and I cast a bone shatterer on his arm without thinking. I rushed him here as quickly as I could, but I'm afraid he fell unconscious on the way …' he lied, faking a look of urgency and concern as best he could.

The nurse blinked, sitting bolt upright, 'Er …' she obviously was not used to cases of self-confessed cursing, 'may I take your name? And then if you could just wait in the hospital someone will come and contact you after we've taken care of him.'

'Of course I'd be delighted to wait, I'll just head up to the tea room,' he answered, backing away into the lift, his finger hovering over the button for the fourth floor.

'Your name, sir!'

Jonathan paused for a second before selecting the first name to come to mind, 'Harry, Harry Potter,' his finger pressed down on the button.

* * *

Ron stirred sleepily, blinking sleep stilled eyes as his wand rattled on the cabinet next to him. He reached out a wand to grab it, swearing ferociously as he burnt himself on the glowing tip, he really needed to ask Hermione how to do that spell properly. Though it was uncertain whether she would tell him or not, she never really seemed to understand that the reason he asked for her help was that he trusted her more than the books, well that and the fact that it was an easy way to search through the whole library. The wand rattled again.

'Will ye shut that bloody thing up!' Called Seamus from somewhere in his four-poster.

'Yeah, yeah,' Ron made a second grab for the wand, this time managing not to burn himself. He rolled round onto his back, wiping a hand across his eyes to get rid of the sleep, wincing as his fingers brushed a spot which seemed to be developing on his cheek. 'Tempus,' he growled with a sweep of his wand.

Faint purple letters materialised in the air above him: _Twenty-seven minutes past six o'clock in the morning._

'The things I do for love …' Ron heaved himself up, pulling his curtains open he leaned out of bed, fishing around for clothes. Pulling on one of the infamous, in Ron's opinion, Weasley jumpers and applying a somewhat dodgy colour changing charm so that it became something which approximated to navy-blue he hauled up a sock. Unthinkingly Ron pushed his foot into and the worn fabric tore, he ground his teeth in frustration, but since the tear was on the underside of the sock there was little point in trying to replace it and so ignoring it he continued to get dressed. The trousers were at least an inch too short he noticed as he tied up his shoe-laces, it would mean owling his mother for yet another old pair. _I'd better try to get someone to remind me_, he thought as he tried to make his way carefully down the stairs into the common room without waking anyone. Behind him he heard a soft tread and looking round he saw Neville following him.

'Hi Nev, you're up early.'

'I couldn't sleep, I heard you getting up and decided to go to breakfast. Is that Hermione over there?'

Ron looked to where Neville was pointing, Hermione lay curled up asleep in one of the armchairs near the fire, a thick book wrapped up in her arms. He walked over and shook her lightly by the shoulder.

'Hermione,' he said faintly, she did not stir. 'Hermione,' a bit louder this time, she buried her head deeper into the crook of her arms.

He shook her should again, 'Hermio...' her punch landed squarely on his jaw. He staggered back, and rubbed at the spot, 'You pack a hell of a punch, you know that?'

'So I've been told,' she growled, as she arched her back and uncurled, 'what's the time?'

'About quarter to seven, I wondered if you'd like to come down to breakfast. I'm meeting Luna on the way but Neville's coming too, though I don't think I will in future,' he remarked nursing his jaw.

She turned her head slightly, looking at him in surprise, 'That's very kind of you Ron. It would be nice to have some company.'

'Do you mind coming as you are? Only I have to meet her in about quarter of an hour.'

Hermione shook herself, 'Ugh, I feel disgusting, but I can shower after breakfast. Let's go.'

The three of them trailed along in awkward silence through the dark corridors until they came to a spiral stair. Ron halted, and the three of them looked out of the window at the still dark sky, on the horizon there was the faintest hint of a slightly lighter blue though it was still little more than black. The tips of the giant fir trees of the Forbidden Forest were silhouetted against the pre-dawn horizon, above them a few stars still dotted the sky, their light reflecting up from the unbroken snow.

'It's beautiful isn't it?' Luna commented from behind them, they nodded absently, still marvelling at the starlit landscape. They stood there for a few minutes before Ron's stomach rumbled loudly.

'Do you ever not feel hungry?' Hermione asked, for once amused by Ron's appetite, it was much easier to be amused by it provided she did not have to be sitting by him as he ate.

'Well, I'm a growing boy,' protested Ron, unabashedly, 'kitchens or great hall, Luna?'

'Kitchens, I promised to make Dobby some protectors against the nargles. He says that some of his socks have been developing holes.'

'Dobby, isn't that the name of the elf who Harry met?' Inquired Hermione as they started off down a worn stone staircase behind a tapestry with a sneezing dragon. No one answered her, however, as Luna and Ron were already ahead, with by the sound of it Luna warning Ron as to the dangers of letting one's stomach rumble, apparently it sounded like a mating call for Whirrels, whatever they were.

As they reached a relatively bare corridor with only a painting of a bowl of fruit on the wall Luna turned to Hermione, 'How are you going to be?'

Hermione decided to treat the sentence as if it were somewhat more usually phrased, 'I'm enjoying being up early,' she answered tentatively.

'Oh, I agree, sometimes I don't sleep at all. It helps make sure the little people don't attack your hair, they don't do it so much while you're awake I wish they weren't as good at tying knots. I've tried to meet them to ask them not to before, but I haven't managed yet. Daddy thinks they can make themselves invisible. It looks as if you must have really annoyed them. Perhaps that's why you've been chosen.'

Hermione tugged at her matted hair self-consciously, 'It isn't actually little people who do that you know …'

'You don't believe in them?' Luna's eyebrows rose several inches in surprise, 'but even you have evidence for them! Still,' she mused, 'I suppose it at least proves that they don't like it when you don't believe in them, Daddy will be pleased. Can I take a picture of your hair for the next edition of the Quibbler?'

'We'll see, Luna,' said Hermione carefully, dropping back to talk to Neville, somehow talking to Luna always left her rather frustrated. Luna on the other hand merrily skipped away and started to tickle a pear.

'What …' began Neville, before the painting swung aside, 'that has got to be one of the strangest passwords I've ever seen.'

Stepping through the hole they found themselves surrounded by a score of House-Elves, their long, thin, hands gently tugging at their clothes.

'Please, misses and sirs what can we do for yous? Food, help do you want something cleaned?'

'Don't worry, we'd just like a little breakfast,' said Neville, surprising the others as he took charge, 'can you take us to a table and give us something to eat?'

'Of course, wes all bes very happy to do so, Master Longbottom!' The elves squeaked in chorus, in the right circumstances they would have been perfect for in a Greek play.

As the elves led them towards a table Hermione spoke quietly to Neville from the corner of her mouth, 'Why did the elves call you master?'

'Well they _are _servants, they do all the work at Hogwarts,' Neville replied bemusedly, as if slightly perplexed as to why anyone would ask.

'Definitely servants? So they get paid, have holidays, rights, time off, sick leave and so on? It's just Harry told me about one who was treated as a slave, he said they could not be freed without being given clothes and I can't help noticing that these are wearing tea towels, albeit in the form of togas. I'm trying to keep calm, but I'd really appreciate an answer,' Hermione's voice radiated control.

'Why would they be paid or anything? They're House-Elves …' Neville's brow furrowed in puzzlement.

'That's slavery! It's wrong,' Hermione was standing stock still, unmoving under the urgings of the House-Elves around her.

'It's just the way they are, they were born to serve. There's some research which says they _need _to.'

'Why would anything evolve like that? It doesn't make sense. It sounds more like wizard propaganda to explain the subjugation of a species more than anything else,' said Hermione, her hands unconsciously clenching and unclenching.

'I don't know it's just what I was told,' Neville replied defensively, 'look it up, ask some of the elves, but come on I want breakfast, and slave labour or not you won't be able to do anything if you don't eat.'

Hermione paused, about to argue, but decided that it was pointless to argue without facts. It was she knew, a sad fact of life that most people will never consider changing an opinion which have been imparted to their parents or society, and to attempt to persuade them is a pointless exercise, even with the weight of evidence, but to argue without considering evidence puts you in no stronger position. She sat down grudgingly.

'I'm sorry Neville, I will look into it. I'm a bit short tempered right now.'

'Is it Harry?' Asked Neville, carefully as if tiptoeing around a sleeping dragon, he had evidently taken the school motto to heart she reflected.

'Yes,' she answered shortly. She felt bad for not trying to continue the conversation but while Neville was sweet she simply did not feel up to a conversation, especially while she was surrounded by slaves.

As Luna sat down at the table Ron stumbled bashing his knee against the table, 'Blood hell! Stupid table. I swear these things are out to get me.'

'What? Tables Ron?' Hermione asked a grin twitching her lips.

'Yep, evil, bloody things.'

'Don't be silly, Ronald, tables aren't out to get you. Why on earth would they have a grudge against you anyway? It simply wouldn't make sense. I think you're being rather silly,' Luna said, not unkindly.

A House-Elf coughed near Ron's shoulder, it was holding a napkin over one, spindly, arm like a serving cloth and a notebook in the other hand, 'Would yous like to orders, sirs and madamses? I be Dobby and will for you this morning be waiting.'

'Hello Dobby,' said Luna brightly, 'here are the protectors I promised you,' she reached into her robes and pulled out what looked like a rather strangely knitted pair of mittens. Dobby grinned widely and promptly pulled them over his ears.

'Thank you very much Miss Loony.'

It was not long before the House-Elves brought them, what to Hermione's mind, was a somewhat overly large breakfast. However, the size of their portions seemed to fail to deter Ron who managed to not only finish his own, but help with the others. It became noticeable that the House-Elves were gazing up in awe at him as they took various dishes away. As Ron began to devour Luna's scrambled eggs he paused momentarily and turned to Hermione, 'Hermione …'

'Swallow Ron,' Hermione snapped automatically as she ducked the spray of half chewed egg.

'Sorry … erm, anyway, you see I haven't quite finished the potions homework and I was wondering if you …'

'How far through are you?'

'Well, I've written something,' Ron replied defensively.

'How much?'

'About two words,' he admitted sheepishly, studiously avoiding looking at her.

'And you want me to help you finish it?' Asked Hermione incredulously.

'Well if you could …'

'I'll read over it, but you have to at least write three feet first.'

'I'll definitely make "Three feet" the start of the essay,' agreed Ron, Luna snorted into her orange juice (at least, Hermione thought it was orange juice, though Luna's request had been for something Hermione wasn't even sure she could pronounce).

'You do and I'll insert punctuation randomly throughout, and turn half your full stops into comas. I'd like to see what Snape would do to you after trying to make sense of it,' Hermione replied, suppressing a grin.

'Well …' Ron's reply was cut short as a House-Elf appeared with a crack beside their table, making him jump and smash his knee against the table again, he swore loudly. The elf was holding a copy of the_ Daily Prophet_ and a copy of the _Quibbler_, Luna gratefully took the latter and immediately began to flick through it. Hermione, despite her gut clenching at the thought of participating in slavery picked up the Daily Prophet which had fallen open on the table where Luna had flung it as she took the _Qui__bbler_. The page it had fallen open on showed a picture of an uncharacteristically downcast Ludo Bagman, Hermione scanned the page: _Is Bagman the right man for the job? … As the Triwizard tournament continues colleagues say he is working less than ever … without Bartemius Crouch, who has recently fallen ill, to pick up the slack for him it seems Bagman is set to ruin our great country's reputation. … Ministry Worker Percival Weasley has however defended the efforts of the departments stating that, 'what the papers should be concentrating on is the success we have seen so far. Despite Mr Crouch's illness international relations have reached new heights after the rocky start to the tournament. Mr Bagman has been __under a great deal of pressure recently, while I hope that he will not leave his colleagues to do his work for him, I assure you that the ministry is perfectly capable …'_

Hermione flipped a couple more pages, passing over the glossy advertisements, before something caught her eye.

_Harry Potter – the Boy Who Vanished_

_Rita Skeeter _

_Despite the fact that the young boy hero has been missing for over a week it has only been through intensive research that your correspondent has discovered his absence. Harry Potter, youngest of the Triwizard Champions, was infamously missing from the recent Yule Ball, but until this morning it was believed that he had been taken ill with an unfortunate case of the Griffin's Claw disease and that his freshly de-clawed legs were too unsteady for him to attend. _

_ However, this was in fact a lie constructed, to all appearances, by Albus Dumbledore. Evidently Hogwarts is less than safe, and appears to be failing to lead the nation's children by example. The public may naturally feel that this is the worst case scenario, perhaps Dumbledore has not only lost his touch, but also his famous _good intentions_ but there is a more sinister alternative still. I first began to uncover the truth of the matter last night when, as I was paying a visit to an unfortunate friend in St. Mungo's, I heard a young man deliver an unconscious and beaten muggle to St Mungo's for care. The young man in question had seriously injured the muggle, the man's name? Harry Potter, or so he declared._

_ I admit I was dubious at first, but from the reports of his classmates it seems all too likely that Harry Potter is far from the saviour we've been led to believe. His classmate, Pansy Parkinson confided how in his second year it was revealed that he was a parselmouth a dark trait made doubly suspicious by the fact that according to the teachers it was later revealed the creature which was hunting down the students was a basilisk, the king of snakes. Although the events which that year culminated in were largely hushed up, again, it is well known that Potter was the only person truly aware of what occurred in the Chamber of Secrets. The possibility that Potter was capable and inclined towards attacking muggles suddenly seems much more likely if he was indeed the heir of Slytherin. But wait, some may say, it is well known that Potter lives with his muggle relatives, surely this would temper any hatred of muggles? The answer I am sorry to report is no. Only last year his aunt was blown up (yet another crime which has been concealed), as an aid to the minister put it, and it is striking that not long ago his foster-mother and aunt by blood Petunia Dursley, and his cousin Dudley Dursley were both killed._

_ However, the facts do not cease there, Draco Malfoy and many other classmates who wished to remain anonymous (so that Potter's 'minions' as they referred to them could not harm them) revealed that Potter has repeatedly picked fights and behaved aggressively throughout his time at Hogwarts, although he has escaped punishment on many occasions. Can it still be doubted that Potter does not harbour sociopathic tendencies?_

_Either way, following up the lead I discovered that it was not as impossible as it had at first seemed for Potter to be in London indulging his violent passions. He has not been seen since the 17__th__ of this month. This reporter hopes that the Ministry will launch a full investigation into Harry Potter, if he returns to Hogwarts he may well prove a threat to not only muggles but to our children._

_**For information on the Chamber of Secrets and Slytherin's Heir see pages 9-12.**_

_**For an investigation into the abuse of wizarding children in muggle homes see page 13.**_

Hermione threw down the paper, hissing in anger, 'The disgusting, lying, hag! She's twisted every half truth and rumour she possibly could into an attack on him. I swear …'

'What is it?' Interrupted Ron, as he chewed on one of the remaining sausages.

'Rita Skeeter, liar extraordinaire, that's what, look,' she chucked the paper across to Ron who caught it with surprising ease.

'Oi, look at this,' he said, ignoring Hermione's growl of annoyance that he had chosen a different article, 'oh this is brilliant, listen:

_Major Mess at the Manor:_

_Aurors and Enforcers were called in the early hours of the morning to the Malfoy family seat. They were greeted by the irate owner, one Lucius Malfoy, earl of the Isle of Sighs. He claimed that a notable magical artefact, the Cauldron of Dyrnwch, which dates back to the days of the Druids of Anglesey and which has been numbered among the thirteen treasures of Britain had been stolen from his estate. The Enforcers quickly secured the scene and confirmed the theft, estimated to have taken place some time before midnight, they offered Lord Sighs that he would at least be able to claim the insurance. However, as they later discovered Lord Sighs had employed a prohibited defence in the form of automatons inside his estate. While as a member of the Wizangamot he is technically legally permitted to use such creations the Insurance Company has claimed that their presence has invalidated the agreement and it seems likely that a court case will ensue. For the moment Lord Sighs has offered a reward for the return of the artefact, a large cauldron formed of a dark blue metal with a rim of precious and semi-precious stones,** for further details about the ****reward and the cauldron see page** **16.**_

'Oh that's good, Malfoy will be fuming!' Ron finished, smiling broadly, before he looked over to Hermione who was virtually vibrating with anger.

'Were you even listening to what I said?' Asked Hermione, once he had finished speaking over her.

'Something about Harry?' He hazarded.

'Yes, you dim witted orangutan, Harry, your best friend? Rita Skeeter's done a number on him this time, she's started a veritable witch-hunt,' the others around the table flinched at the last word.

Hermione sighed, 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that, but still Skeeter's completely blackening his name, it's libel. If too many believe this I, I mean we, might only get Harry back for him to be thrown into jail.'

'I'm sure that won't happen Hermione,' said Ron, evidently attempting to be comforting.

'Really, after the way they locked up Sir … Hagrid? In second year? The Ministry would lock anyone up if it boosted the opinion polls.'

'You know,' said Luna serenely ignoring the argument, 'it should almost be dawn now, it must be nearly quarter to nine. We ought to go up into the Great Hall.' She stood up and thanking the House-Elves began to pick her way through and out of the kitchen. Hermione huffed, but stood up and after following Luna's lead in thanking the elves left the kitchen with the boys trailing behind her. She was about to turn and let Ron catch up before beginning again when Luna took her arm and began to march her towards the Great Hall.

'Would Harry mind about this?'

'No, probably not,' Hermione conceded, 'but that isn't the point. Sketeter shouldn't be saying things like that …'

'Of course she shouldn't but that doesn't mean she won't carry on writing things like that. Harry's borne this before, people may think he is guilty, but it will take a lot to prove it and still more for the Ministry to dare to act against him. If nothing else Rotfang managed to make them into cowards,' remarked Luna, her soothing lilt surprisingly calming Hermione.

'Yes, I suppose you're right,' admitted Hermione, 'but there must be something we can do. Evidence we can muster …'

Luna scoffed, an uncharacteristically solid sound for the usually dreamy girl, 'I would have thought that this at least would show you how over rated evidence is.'

'If we don't have evidence our beliefs are completely unfounded,' replied Hermione, grimly settling in for a repeat of their recurring argument.

'Can you see the stars?'

'What? Yes, of course.'

'Can you see all of them?'

'No, but …'

'But you know that they are out there?' Asked Luna cutting Hermione off.

'Well, I could see more of them with a telescope and I can predict that more of them exist …' began Hermione carefully, she could sense where the argument was leading.

'Can you prove it?'

'Well I can prove I can see them.'

'Really, prove it to me. What if I were blind how would you prove it then?'

'I'd have to try and explain their existence based upon the known laws of the universe.'

'And can you prove these rules?'

'Well yes, or at least I can prove them beyond reasonable doubt.'

'You personally can do that? Taking into account all the vast unexplained mysteries of the universe,' asked Luna, raising her eyebrows sceptically, 'or does this rely on the work of others?'

'It does, but their results have been confirmed. The results have been rationally assessed, our model of the universe may not be perfect, but it is based on empirical data and careful observation. To go and then say that really the universe is a chess board, for instance, wouldn't be anything more than an opinion. If we think rationally about things we are more likely to achieve …'

Luna interrupted again, 'Why do you think that rational thinking is even the best way of thinking?'

'Because if one thinks rationally one has a higher chance of achieving results which are largely consistent, and as a method of thought it provides the opportunity to improve our understanding not only of the basic principles which govern the universe, but even our own personalities …'

'Are you sure can you prove it? You see, if that were so then we should able pretty easily to prove Harry's innocence.'

'But so few people _are _rational, especially wizards, and even thinking rationally you can still arrive at incorrect solutions, ' sighed Hermione, she knew there was little point in trying to convince Luna … and then they were in the Great Hall, around them a babble of voices drowned out their conversation. Luna's eyes became slightly less focused.

'You know Hermione, I really pity you,' she said not unkindly, 'sometimes I think you just don't have the courage to live beyond what you've been taught, but you may yet.'

Hermoine gritted her jaw and looked up at the ceiling of the hall, already rosy with the first hints of dawn striking as clouds burnt with the light of the sun. Ahead of her Luna picked her way down the table among the breakfasters (of whom there were few in the mornings of the holiday), Ron trailed after Luna as Neville split off to the Hufflepuff table, heading towards Hannah Abbott. Hemione paused before setting off back towards Gryffindor Tower for her long awaited shower.

Ron paused for a second, wondering if he should try to talk about Harry with her but he decided that ultimately it would be better to let her have some time to think. Pushing past a few first years evidently still trying to get as much time as possible to enjoy Christmas presents before the holidays were over he snatched up a cup of tea, complete with tea leaves, remembering his Divination homework. While he would normally have simply made up anything he could have for Trelawney Luna had a knack for coming up with precisely the sort of things the divination teacher liked to hear, if nothing else he could probably get some good ideas. He took a sip of the tea and grimaced, even House-Elves couldn't make him like tea.

He strolled towards the great doors, to which Luna had already drifted. He stepped through them after her, wincing as the chill of the winter air hit him. Above the trees the edge of the sun, a ruby, sliver, peeked. He took a large swig, emptying the cup and stepped up behind Luna, wrapping an arm round her shoulders. They stood quietly for a few minutes before he spoke.

'You know I wonder if the creator of the quaffle based it on the sun, it looks of similar.'

'Maybe, stranger things have happened. You know, I don't think Hermione is very happy.'

'No, I think not,' Ron sighed.

'Perhaps if she went for a ride on Harry's broomstick when he gets back she'd be happier,' Luna mused. Ron spluttered incoherently.

'Though then again she doesn't like flying much,' she finished.

'You think he's coming back then?'

She turned to look at him, protruding, silver eyes, wide, 'Of course, he's Harry.'

It was Ron realised as simple as that, for Luna despite the fact that she had known Harry for hardly a term he had managed to inspire an unshakeable faith in his permanence.

'Do you want me to read your leaves again? You know you really ought to learn to do it for yourself. If you'd like I'll make you a poultice of dirigible leaves, it ought to stimulate your desire to learn, Daddy thinks it was part of how Ravenclaw managed to do so much …'

'Thanks,' Ron replied diplomatically.

'Anyway your fortune … well the upright leaves suggest that you're going to be brutally murdered with a plethora of painful implements, including,' she squinted carefully at the leaves, 'a teaspoon, wielded by Professor Snape, aided by a psychopathic House-Elf.'

'That's … different,' ventured Ron.

Luna smacked herself in the forehead, 'I forgot, which hand were you holding the cup in?'

'Er, my right, I think.'

'Oh well, that makes all the difference in the world,' she said brightly, 'Professor Snape will still kill you, very, very brutally, but I know a way to counter it.'

'Yes?'

'Follow me, we need a broom cupboard. Dobby told me about a very interesting one on the seventh floor. By the way, have I ever told you how sweet you are when you're being gullible?'

* * *

'Sit down, Sirius,' began Dumbledore, 'there has been a development.'

Sirius, his cheeks gaunt, skin stretched like parchment over his bones half collapsed into the armchair across from Dumbledore. In the last week he seemed to have aged a decade, large, dark, circles surrounded his sunken eyes.

'What is it Dumbledore?' He croaked, 'Where's my godson?'

'I don't know as yet, the tracking spell is just settling,' lied Dumbledore, telling Sirius the location would almost certainly lead to an immediate and suicidal mission. 'However, when I do know I will be leading a team to rescue him. I have recalled the Order of the Phoenix, I fear that if my guesses about Voldemort are correct then it is better that they be ready sooner rather than later …'

'I don't care, I want _Ja-Harry _back!' Sirius roared, half rising from his chair before falling back into it.

'Hardly a display appropriate to a Black,' commented a portrait from the wall.

'Shut up, you uptight corpse,' Sirius growled at the painting of Phineas Nigellus.

'Sirius,' said Dumbledore, tentatively, realising that he had underestimate Sirius' devotion to his godson, and possibly overestimated his sanity, ' while I will allow you to be present at the meeting, I want to remind you that you will be of more service to Harry if you stay here, safe. You are not well, you've been worrying yourself to death,' he could see Sirius was about to protest and interrupted, 'if anything you will be more of a danger than a help in your current state of health. Furthermore, while I have revealed to Alastor who you are and that you are innocent the other members of the Order have no idea at the present time. I will inform them later, but it would be foolish to waste the time. Do I have your promise?'

Sirius paused for a moment before nodding slowly.

'Now, quickly, transform and wait beside Fawkes, our guests are coming,' Sirius shifted almost instantaneously, leaping down from the chair as Dumbledore called out, 'Come in.'

The door swung open and Dumbledore stood up to greet the guests, Snape and McGonagall entered followed by Alastor Moody, Arthur and Molly Weasley, their oldest son, Bill, Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nymphadora Tonks, Dedalus Diggle and lastly Elphias Doge.

Dumbledore smiled broadly, he had it seemed guessed the time necessary for the conversation with Sirius correctly and avoided prolonged argument, 'Well then, we are all here, a few were unavoidably detained, but I would like to welcome our newest members in Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Nymphadora Tonks,' he continued ignoring Tonk's expression, 'Arthur and Molly Weasley and their son William Weasley. I am convinced of the discretion and allegiance of all of them …'

'Does this mean you think he's back, Albus?' Asked Elphias, his reedy voice cutting in, 'I'm sorry to interrupt but I know we are all wondering, is this why you've called us.'

Dumbledore, sighed internally, important though the question was he wished Elphias could have waited, 'I know that it must seem the most pressing question to you, and I cannot confirm that the reason I have asked you here is not linked to the possibility. What I can say is that Voldemort is perhaps closer than he has been in thirteen years to returning,' a series of shudders and aghast cries ran round the room, only Snape and Moody stood unflinchingly among the other Order members, 'this meeting serves a dual purpose, it is a preliminary step in case we need to act, and more importantly we are here to deal with the issue of the capture of Harry Potter …'

A burst of noise followed as everyone tried to voice their opinion and horror depending upon how much they knew, Dumbledore waited for the noise to die down before he continued, 'I have finally managed to locate him, and I wish to lead a small team to try to retrieve him. I warn you that the enemy appears, from the reports we have to be exceptionally dangerous. Hagrid, was badly injured when Harry was taken captive. I would like six volunteers to accompany me in this. However, I would ask Minerva, Remus, Severus and Alastor to remain behind. Alastor you know that in the event of my death you are to command the Order. Minerva, you are far too important to this school and we cannot abandon the other children. Remus, I know you will want to come, but if Voldemort returns you are too valuable as a contact with the werewolves to risk you, and likewise you Severus are critically important as our spy in Voldemort's ranks,' Remus, Minerva and Alastor nodded grudgingly and Dumbledore paused waiting for Snape to come in on cue.

'Dark Lord rises and you wish to run after a boy?' Snape's incredulous disgust was almost believable to even Dumbledore, it provided the perfect reason to win over those who might question the necessity for the Order's involvement.

'Harry is more important than you realise, Severus, it would not be untrue to say that the coming war may well hinge upon his participation,' Dumbledore replied, staring sternly over his glasses at the Order.

'I'll go,' Molly Weasley's strident tones broke the silence as the others absorbed Dumbldore's words, her husband and son followed suit, stepping forward.

'Wait,' Dumbledore held up his hand, 'William and Molly, given your skills I am very grateful for your offer of assistance, but, Arthur, I think perhaps you should stay behind. We all know your bravery, but you are not a warrior.'

'You're right, but I can't just let my family go without me …'

'And the rest of your family will need you if we should fail. I will not lie, I have no idea what we will face. Will anyone else step forward?'

The Order members looked at each other before Shacklebolt and Tonks raised their hands, 'I don't know him beyond the rumours, but I'm not leaving a boy captive to who knows what,' said Tonks speaking for both of them.

Finally Diggle nodded, 'I'll go, I'm old, but I'd say I could beat Doge in a fight at any rate.'

The Doge shifted uncomfortably at the fact that he had obviously been left without a role, 'Albus, I know I'm getting on a little but I'm sure I could help out, I'm not _that _incompetent,' he had evidently meant it to sound light hearted but the petulant tone in which it had emerged made the kindly old man wince.

'Elphias,' began Dumbledore placing a hand on his shoulder, 'I know you want to take part. I will not insult your intelligence by handing you some two-knut role to keep you out of the way, you know as well as I that you are little more than a liability in combat now. You can however act as a centre of operations, these devices,' he waved his hand at an array of thin, spindly instruments,' will, once activated by us track our vital signs. It shall be your duty, if you wish to monitor them, and use two-way mirrors to maintain contact between us in case of an emergency. Fawkes will stay with you so that you may direct him to any in need.'

'It is hardly the role I'd like, but I'll take what I can. Take care of yourself, you old fox.'

* * *

It was only shortly after Dumbledore and the other members of the Order vanished from just beyond the wards of Hogwarts that the owl from St Mungo's flew into the Great Hall in search of the headmaster. In lieu of Dumbledore or McGonagall's presence the bird delivered the small, sealed, letter to Flitwick, he read it quickly and set off to find Neville Longbottom, the note itself had been short and to the point.

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_Alice and Frank Longbottom have spoken. Please inform Neville Longbottom of the development. __We are unsure of what this may mean, but at least for the moment it seems that there may be some chance that they may be on the road to recovery, several apparently dead neural pathways have __been reawoken. _

_Yours sincerely,_

_Healer Moncrief_

_P.S. They seemed eager to inform you that 'The Pale Man is waiting twixt sea and hill in the wood which bars the way. Seek fast or never find.' We are at a loss to explain this and we would appreciate any help you can provide at your earliest possible convenience._

* * *

**A/N: **I probably shouldn't delve into this but I felt that you deserve to understand my thinking. Why did I pair Ron and Luna together in this story? It is more than a way to dump Ron off on someone else, I could have decided to simply leave him alone. Why Luna though? She is unique and while strong in many ways, she deserves as many have argued understanding. Ron does not necessarily seem the immediate choice, he is at times boorish and he does have the 'emotional range of a teaspoon'. However, this is fanfiction, Ron's relationship with Luna is a mark of his own development as a character. The break with Harry forced him to re-evaluate his behaviour, in a way which perhaps Harry failed to do, while he has not changed in many ways he did develop a deeper level of compassion, particularly for Luna who was one of the main people he talked to (despite everything) at the time. From Luna's point of view she found Ron amusing and he cared. It may suggest a rather shallow attachment, but on the other hand they are only 13 and 14 respectively, one shouldn't expect an immediate and great level of depth to a relationship at such an age. The reason Luna wants to go to the Room of Requirement is just that she wants some time with Ron and she finds the room fun.

Why explain this when you could show it? Because I'm not sure if I will get around to showing it. If I do then I will delete this section. I'm sorry for the long explanation. I hope you enjoyed reading. I would be very grateful for any reviews.

Incidentally I think I might have to give up on any attempt to make Luna funny, comedy is obviously not my strong suit. Still you never know, maybe next time.


	14. The Trial of the Hill

**Disclaimer: **If you didn't read it the first thirteen times why read it now?

**A/N:** Thanks to Sorcerer's Muse who permitted the use of her wonderful idea of magisexaudio. I sincerely recommend her work, _Harry Potter and the Heir of Morgaine le Faye._

I am still looking for a beta so should anyone want to volunteer, please do.

**The Trial of the Hill**

_I am not a human being; I walk in eternity_

The Fourth Doctor

Dumbledore appeared silently upon the well worn pathway, the air, though cool was a welcome respite from the cutting chill of the Scottish winds. Five cracks sounded as the rest of the party appeared behind him, tightly grouped and waiting with their wands drawn. Clear, bleak, daylight shone down around them, piercing the leafless branches. Mud, moss, tree and stone were all that could be seen, to their left there was the sound of running water. No birds stirred, no twigs cracked, no animals walked.

Dumbledore held up his hand, the cracked, black, stone of the ring pulsing softly with a faint light, turning in a circle he set off, down the side of the hill towards the sound of the water and as he walked the light grew stronger, the pulsing becoming a steady glow, a deep, vibrant, red. Scrambling down the hillside the others came after him, prying briars away from their robes rather than risking magic which might have given away their position. Molly led the rest of the party, moving faster than her stout frame would have suggested, her wand held ready to slash at a moment's notice. Diggle came last, wheezing slightly as he scrambled down over stones and through ferns, out of them all Shacklebolt seemed most at ease, moving with the casual grace born of long experience. At last they reached the bottom of the gorge, tannin filled water flowed by, reflecting the ghostly green of the moss from the rocks, lending the place an unearthly feel.

Dumbledore paused as if uncertain over how to precede, and then with a grim confidence he began to pick his way over the slippery rocks, continuing on downstream, clinging to roots which dangled over the increasingly sheer rock face in order to bypass the growing number of waterfalls. The others followed, the feeling of dread and anticipation growing in their bellies. Somehow without the familiar touches of humanity the world had become a much more threatening place. As they were edging round a pool Diggle slipped, grabbed widely, and caught a bramble which as he fell ripped open his skin, tiny droplets of blood dripping over the plant. His murmur of 'Oh fudge' and the soft splash as he fell into the water sent even Shacklebolt spinning on his heel, wand drawn and ready for the worst. The sight of the tiny man, his vermilion robes pooling out around him as he sat chest deep in the freezing water somehow broke the tension though and as with a light laugh he scrambled out and cast a quick drying charm upon himself the others relaxed.

The going was easier then, mentally at least, the rocks were still slippery, the spray cold and the path narrow, but some of the tension was gone. At last Dumbledore paused, the edges of his deep purple robes fluttering in the breeze. Before them the way down the gorge became impassable, but just at the very edge, set a few feet above the water were a set of steps roughly hewn from the rock of the cliff which led up towards a narrow crack in the rock. Quickly walking up the steps Dumbledore teased aside the leafless briars and roots which crisscrossed the opening, 'William, would you care to give me your professional opinion?' He asked, stepping aside to leave the entrance clear for the cursebreaker.

Reaching the split in the rock Bill drew out a pair of plain spectacles and placing them on his nose began to tap his wand against the rock face, carefully spacing each tap, the tip of his wand glowing faintly as he did so. Then, edging backwards down the steps he drew a quartered circle in the air, leaving deep red flames trailing from his wand. The fire blossomed for a second, leaving an after image in the watcher's eyes, and then guttered into nothing. They waited unsure as to whether whatever Bill had attempted had been successful or not. The seconds ticked by, Shacklebolt coughed awkwardly and Tonks closed her eyes, obviously focusing as a thin layer of fur sprouted over her to keep back the cold.

'Bill dear,' began Molly, but her eldest child held up his hand for silence and shocked by the reaction she complied. A grin spread over Bill's face and the others strained their eyes to see what had so pleased him, though it was a few moments before with a gasp Tonks saw it. A fine tracery of lines was spreading over the rock, lit by a pale light which slowly grew in intensity. Rune after rune, etched in the weathered rock, came to life. Bill peered at them intently, his mouth moving silently as he followed the repeating patterns, working out from nodal points where seven lines of liquid silver intermeshed to form greater runes, shimmering golden against the argent companions which fed one another linking the tracery of power together.

'Beautiful, absolutely beautiful,' he murmured, obviously enraptured by whatever the runes were telling him. He half reached out a hand as if to stroke the rock before he noticed the others watching him. He blushed and licked his lips slowly, 'This is a touch more complex than I expected, and from what I can tell,' he pointed to the edges of the illuminated section of rock where the lines faded out, 'this is only part of it. I haven't got a clue how far this goes on for, though given the lay out and the interlocking wards here I'd guess that it probably stretches both under and over this entire hill. What's more these have some serious power behind it, whatever happens we don't want a runic cascade here, the overflow would probably flatten both Cornwall and Devon at the very least. These are blood wards, these a lot of blood, powerful blood behind them.'

The others paled at the mention of blood magic, 'Er … no chance of getting through then?' Diggle's high voice broke in.

'What? Oh no, we'd need the blood of who ever is powering these, or anyone else keyed into the wards. This stuff is fresh too, if it were a couple of thousand years old we'd probably be able to hack our way in eventually, but not with these ones. I don't think whoever built this even gave themselves a back-door. But,' he paused dramatically, 'the thing is these are inverted,' he pointed to one of the greater runes, 'this one here? It's the magic rune _tirnor_, according to legend one of the runes given by a figure known as the One-Eyed Wanderer to wizards, it stands for unleashing and aging The thing is, its reversed so it's forcing a negative version of the magic inwards. Whoever built this place didn't build a fortress, they built a prison, a prison for eternity. Now normally we wouldn't have a chance, however,' he pulled a few rocks out of his pocket and winked, 'the goblins have developed pretty similar wards to this which they have around some of their vaults, you know the sort, you get sucked in, but you don't get out. Sometimes Gringott's branches have been lost and so cursebreakers have to go in to rescue what's been left behind. This ward in particular has a weakness, namely that it's fuc …'

'William Weasley,' growled Molly warningly.

Bill paled, 'Erm, I mean it is quite a big old ward,' he finished lamely, 'which is to say that these little babies, jammers as we call them in the trade, can hold open a little door for us if we set them up before we go in, just a tiny crack, but in a ward this big, that's big enough for us. The ward is too old to be protected from them. Only thing is they won't last long and we'll need to stay near them to keep them powered up, even so they'll burn through if we don't get out soon …'

'How soon?' Asked Shacklebolt, his deep voice booming through Bill's long-winded explanation.

Bill's face screwed up as he tried to calculate it, 'Probably about quarter of an hour, twenty minutes tops, maybe a bit longer if we take out the power source.'

'The plan is this then,' announced Dumbledore, entering the conversation, ' Bill and Diggle you will keep the stones powered, Molly, Shacklebolt, they will be vulnerable so you will guard them. Tonks, you will report back to Doge so that in case we fail they will know what to do and you may help Molly and Shacklebolt. I will go and find Harry, if the jammers are about to run out, you know what to do.' Then, without giving them time to reply or argue he ducked through the crack in the rock and was gone.

The others hesitated for a a second and then screwing their courage to the sticking point they followed the old wizard into the hill.

* * *

Harry could feel it. The magic was literally humming, it pulsed through the chains rooting itself in his body, or maybe it was the other way around, he couldn't tell. Something had changed that much was obvious. It was as if a room which had been lit by only a single flickering candle was suddenly awash with sunlight, an empty theatre suddenly reborn as the first strains of the orchestra lifted up through the dusty rows.

His blood, at least that part of it which ran through the design upon the floor was glowing, releasing a light not dissimilar to the sound of phoenix song (if sound and sight could be compared). For one reason or another something, or someone had come to the hill, and the magic of the place _knew _them as it knew him.

Harry slowed his breathing, his breath misting on the air. Hoarfrost gathered at the corners of his mouth, sparklingly over his skin and creeping the chains, highlighting the runes in ice. There was a chance that this change might herald a chance for escape and he would be damned if he were not to give it his all. The air grew dry and cold enough to burn in the lungs as he leached magic from the air, compressing it into his being. The light from the blood grew brighter as it froze, even the droplets dangling on his fingertips crystallizing into ruby tears as they fell.

The Pale Man straightened up from his seat behind the granite throne where the boy sat, hunched in upon himself. He grinned wolfishly, running his tongue over the tips of his teeth. Flicking the coin he was holding one last time he caught it, glanced at its upturned face for a second and slid it into his pocket.

Drawing a long, pale aspen wand from his sleeve from his sleeve and swished it casually over the nearby stalagmites. Stone ran like water reforming into a shape more suitable for his purpose, stone muscles grinding as he animated them.

'Go, greet our guests welcome, though leave their leader be.'

* * *

Dumbledore strode down the passage as it dipped into the hill, hurrying onwards. The stone glowed a brilliant flaming scarlet in his hand. The smell was nausiating, thick and filled with the scent of mould and stale water. Around him the walls glistened in the light cast by silvery veins of some glowing substance. He stroked the elder wand softly a gentle, repetitive motion to steady his nerves, as he toyed with the idea of drawing his original ebony and phoenix feather companion, if Professor Morgan was right it might be for the best, he had little idea as to how the wand might react to its original owner.

Quietly humming a Christmas carol he continued, his eyes roaming from side to side, keeping an eye out for any danger.

It was too easy, all his senses told him so. One of the fundamental, unwritten laws of magic was that for success, or at least success with any far reaching consequences, the more one struggled the greater the rewards. It was one of the reasons that some of the branches of greater magic were not taught on the curriculum, not because the students would not be able to learn, but because the results would be pitiful in comparison to if the magic had been obtained the_ proper _way. Say for instance a wizard desired to master the art of occlumancy, not simply learn it from a teacher, but truly master it. It was not enough to be taught, one had to need it, to put all your soul into achieving it, there had to be risk. That was effectively what had made Severus so proficient. He had certainly been skilled before he became a spy, but not so proficient that Dumbledore had not been able to pierce his defences, and Voldemort's legilimancy far exceeded his own. The necessity, his personal motivation and the struggle to maintain the façade before even such a master as Voldemort had transformed his powers. In all probability there was no greater master of occlumancy in Western Europe. It had been why Dumbledore had originally intended that Harry should learn from Severus, not because he believed Severus would prove a more able teacher than himself, but rather because there was a chance, albeit a small chance, that the antagonism between the two might have partially counterbalanced the taught nature of the magic. The same was true of animagi, wandless magic, among many other types of sorcery, and most importantly at this moment even achieving your aims in the magical world.

Dumbledore paused in his thoughts, before him lay a cavern as high as a cathedral, easily three hundred feet in length and perhaps as wide. Magic permeated the very air, it hit him like a roaring wind, power such as he had never felt in any place before rocked through him. Had it not been for the fact that if anything it seemed to empower him he would have fallen to his knees. The cavern rose in a dome and beneath the centre sat a throne-like chair of granite, its surface covered in Celtic knots. Chains of blue steel, dappled with ice bound a young boy to the seat. Lines of silver wound away from him in all directions threading through the cathedral like hall.

Realisation struck him in an instant, there was no hope of breaking the wards on the place, the boy, evidently Harry from his still messy black hair, was the runestone which held them in place. Even without using the spells in place upon his glasses the magic was almost visible, writhing under his skin.

'Harry!' He called out, involuntarily, hurrying forward, almost oblivious to his surroundings, only his long habit of wariness forcing him to avoid the rivulets of what he know realised must be blood. The boy's head jerked up, green eyes blazing and his mouth began to open.

'At last, what a delight to finally meet you,' a voice cut in and from behind the throne stepped a man. Dumbledore paused, holding the elder wand, ready to defend himself at a moment's notice. He looked at the figure intently, the man was tall, almost his height, a mess of chestnut hair falling about his head in a mane like mess, accentuating his already sharp features. There was no way to guess his age, he might have been as young as twenty or as old as fifty. He wore a coat of marsh-green leather which stretched to his hips, not dissimilar to that often worn by duelists as a protection against curses. Beneath it a loose creamy shirt and black trousers obviously chosen for ease of movement, and walking boots. In other words tough, durable, light-weight clothes and shoes which would provide good footing in an icy hall. Whoever he was he was more prepared than your average wizard.

'Might I enquire as to your name young man? I do not believe we have had the pleasure of being introduced,' remarked Dumbledore politely as he edged closer, trying to see the runes upon the chains. _How long left_, he wondered as he studied the man, _ten minutes perhaps?_

'You may call me whatever you so desire, but for the moment Jonathan will do,' replied the man tossing his wand lightly from hand to hand.

'Thank you. Now would you mind handing Harry over to me? I would not wish this to become ugly.'

'Ugly? Are you threatening me?' The man threw back his head and laughed, when he finished he wiped his eyes and began to circle Dumbledore, moving in step with him, 'I have walked this world for over two thousand years. I have seen more that is foul than you could ever imagine, and even so only a few of your kind have ever matched my folk in cruelty. Leave pain and despair to those who walk in eternity. I will not give him back, he is _mine_.'

'I fear you look for the worst, but you do not speak as if you approve of cruelty. I offer you a chance to even the balance. Release the boy, I will not ask again.'

Jonathan's lip curled, and for a moment it almost seemed that he wore an expression of triumph, 'No.'

* * *

'You know,' remarked Bill as he placed the jammer and began to feed energy into it before he stepped through the wards, 'I feel absolutely terrible doing it this way. It feels as if I'm cheating. Whoever did this was brilliant, really and truly brilliant, and I'm just breaking in, or out in the case, as if they were an ancient runes student at Hogwarts, just because they didn't know what the future would bring. It hurts.'

Tonks snorted in amusement, 'I'll remember if I ever have to lock you up to make sure that the wards on your cell are perfect. Not so that you can't escape, but just so that you don't feel bad for doing it.'

Molly fought off a grin, finding humour in a situation where a child was in danger seemed entirely wrong to her, and she turned her back to the entrance, beginning to watch the cave in front of them. It was long and wide, but low, at points almost brushing Shacklebolt's head. Several tunnels, some too small for a child, others large enough for a troll stretched away into the distance. Dumbledore's footprints were easily visible on the sandy floor, leading into the central path. She finally voiced her thoughts, 'Do you think he decided to just post us here to keep up safe?'

'No, I doubt it,' answered Shacklebolt, his deep voice instilling a feeling of calm into the others, 'you saw the meeting, he had already chosen the five of us before it began. This is a rescue mission, it loses any purpose should we fail to escape. We all know that he is probably able to match all of us put together. It makes sense that if we need to defend our escape and keep it powered that we should divide into two groups. On his own he is as capable as all of us.'

'You're probably right, I just hate to feel useless like this,' Molly groused.

'Honestly Mum, I'm glad you're there. Diggle and I are pretty, agh,' Bill grimaced as a particularly thick get of red light was torn out of his was adding to the gentle flow of energy into the jammer, 'much defenseless if we want to keep our way out from imploding. The power that's flowing into these things is eating through them like an acid spell through limestone.'

'Shh!' Interrupted Tonks, 'what was that?' Huge bat like ears grew from her head as they all fell silent listening.

'I can't hear anything,' muttered Diggle quietly, his hat bobbing as he sat beside the runestone.

'No, nor me …' began Bill, but then they all heard it, louder this time. It was a skittering noise as if something with many pairs of legs was moving swiftly over the sandy floor. Then a pattering followed, a strange combination of heavy, yet small feet running over stone and onto sand.

'I think we've got company,' growled Shacklebolt, readying his wand.

They came in a wave a shrieking, stone joints protesting at the movements, throwing grit into the air. They had no common form, each individual and different. Some were as small as houselves, but squat and brutish without faces beyond teeth. Others were spider like, on spindly, serrated limbs. At first they simply came through the tunnels, but then more of them appeared, some even emerging from the ceiling leaving gouges in the rock where their form had taken shape before they dropped to the sand below. Their limbs glistened wetly and black eyes of jet shone in the wand-light.

Kingsley dropped two as soon as they appeared, blasting curses smashing the rock into pieces. Molly, no longer as well practiced in combat as in her youth only unleashed a handful of blasting curses before dropping back into a spell-chain more based upon entrapment than destruction. Ropes flew from her wand, ensnaring a tall, gangly one with impossibly long arms. A piercing curse drilled a hole through another's head, but it failed to slow it down. It seemed that only total destruction actually stopped them.

Tonks' wand flew through a blazing pattern of spells, as she levitated one of the squat figures and sent it hurling into its companions the impact smashing off one of the creature's legs and cracking open the head of another like and egg. A flaming whip slashed across them, failing to do more than leave a glowing red line over the chests of a couple who continued forward unperturbed.

'What the hell are these things?' Roared Tonks as Kingsley hit the entrance to one of the tunnels with a massive _reducto_ sending the roof toppling in on an advancing series of the creatures and crushing one beneath the rockfall.

'Like golems,' grunted Bill, as keeping his wand powering the stone he kicked a small statue away from him, its claws leaving deep cuts down his dragon-hide boots, and blood oozed from the leather.

'_Defedio_, damn it they're getting resistant,' Kingsley's gouging curse made barely more than a scratch as connected with yet another, though it served to knock it back a couple of paces. Molly was casting non-verbally, devastating precise strikes still thinning the numbers of the creatures, but there were too many. The wizards were nearly back to back now, only their combined efforts and the relatively narrow approach to their position preventing them from being overwhelmed. New creatures were emerging, large than their predecessors, with veins of shining silver running through them.

The ground shifted suddenly the sand bulging as something moved beneath it. Tonks lashed out wildly a superheated spear of steel erupting from her wand, barely missing whatever it was. Then the sand opened and a snake like stone sprang upwards, sinking its jaws around Diggle's throat and tossing his small body to the side where it thumped heavily against the wall and collapsed twitching, only to be descended upon seconds later by a great number of the creatures. Bill reached up, snatching Diggle's wand from the air as it was torn loose from his grip and while still holding his own wand steady, splitting the beam of light in two into both jammers, he aimed Diggle's wand into the snake's maw as it turned on him.

'_Excidio_,' the wand shone a bright gold and exploded, splinters blasting through his hand, the spell ripped into the snake. For a second it seemed unchanged and then it simply crumbled into dust. 'Heh,' he said weakly, barely audible over the shrieking of the creatures as their tore Diggle's body apart, 'I always wanted to do that.'

Tonks caught him as he almost fell, leaving Shacklebolt and Molly to hold the statues back, 'Oh no you don't,' she growled, holding his arm steady, 'you've got to keep this open. We have to buy as much time as possible …'

* * *

In all honesty Jonathan could not remember fighting someone who could cast a spell faster than Albus Dumbledore, the old man was lightening itself in battle. The instant the word 'no' had left his mouth he'd found himself facing a roaring bolt of lightening, and dodging that had left him on the defensive from the beginning and he found himself hard pressed. He had expected it to be relatively easy to put on a good show and still let Dumbledore rescue the boy, as it was he was having difficulty holding his own. It did not help that while Dumbledore believed that he should be cautious around the runic design covering the floor Jonathan knew _exactly _how careful he had to be. It was bound to get worse when Dumbledore discovered the blood posed less than no threat to him. There was something naggingly familiar about the wand his opponent was using too, the magic was being cast with a surprisingly aggressive slant, not something he would have expected from what he had heard of Dumbledore, even in the duel against Grindelwald he had supposedly cast in a largely defensive style. Cutting out his musings he unleashed a quick gut-spiller and shielded his face from the shrapnel from a nearby blasting curse with his coat-sleeve.

Dumbledore sidestepped neatly, avoiding the yellowish curse by mere inches, already returning fire with a wide arch mind-ripper. He knew it was not going to hit, he would have been more uneasy about using a curse that could turn its victims into a gibbering wreck if had thought it would. Still it opened up his opponent nicely for a blast of the tartarian cage. The spell rebounded off a hastily conjured shield and smashed into one of the walls of the cavern. Ducking under a shimmering blast of rainbow coloured light he let off a series of colour changing jinxes as a distraction and followed up with a neat transfiguration so that the floor rose up around Jonathan, pitting them into a battle of wills as to who could control the spell. He did not intend to win, it would be too time consuming, the key was losing just slowly enough that he could reach Harry. For a second he almost stumbled as resistance momentarily faded and the earth surged up around Jonathan.

'You've got my wand!' The indignant shout almost broke Dumbledore's concentration, evening the pressure after his opponent's momentary slip, 'that was a gift from a dear friend. How dare you use it against me?'

'If I return it, or the stone to you will you let the boy go?' _Half a dozen steps left._

Jonathan gritted his teeth, the effort of pushing back the stone was beginning to wear on him, the offer _was_ tempting.

_Five steps_. Dumbledore's right arm began to shake at as he held the flow of magic steady, the air between them was pulsing with power, shining like the Aurora Borealis. _Four steps_.

'What guarantee do I have that you will give them to me if I let you have the boy?'

'Only my word,' Jonathan would have laughed, had Dumbledore not chosen that moment to apply more pressure and the dry chuckle turned into a groan as a vein throbbed on his forehead.

_Three steps_. Dumbledore could almost touch the chains, the runes seemed to have no external bindings. Like the entire hill they seemed concerned only with keeping that within them prisoner. The smell from Harry was almost intolerable, the overpowering stench of dried urine and faeces surrounded him, evidently cleaning charms had been deemed unnecessary. His skin was paler than normal even and it appeared almost translucent, his normally thin frame was hardly more than skin and bones. _Two steps_.

'If you do not take my offer then I suggest that you accept the reality of the situation,' Dumbledore announced coldly, 'what you have done here is inhuman.'

'And what do you expect from one of the First Children?'

'More than this,' Albus Dumbledore turned his gaze upon Jonathan, and it took all his courage for the fay lord not to quail. _One step._ Dumbledore reached out one, old, elegant, hand and _heard _the magic within the chains. He was probably one of a dozen magicians in the world who could use the skill with anything beyond a very basic level of control. Ignoring the buzz of his own magic he split his mind in two, one part holding the spell against the Pale Man while the other listened to the song of the magic. The magic was surprisingly simple, the majority of the runes bound the prisoner to the rest of the hill, the actual binding spell relied upon blood, and could be broken with blood, the blood of the children of Merlin or Nimue, the magic sang.

Dumbledore was half in a daze, the song of the magic enveloped him, surrounded him. The magic of the hall rose up around him even as his spell upon Jonathan fell apart. The blue dome of light deflected Jonathan's attacks with ease as if they hardly existed. The magic of Merlin had arisen to defend his heir. Dumbledore scratched his hand absent-mindedly against the rough-hewn edge of the throne. His skin broke easily and a drop of blood fell onto the chains.

* * *

A cataclysmic roar of sound slammed through the hill like a thunderclap. The statues trembled and cracked, splintering apart as dust fell from the roof. Tonks collapsed onto Bill, knocking the beam aside, the rock the jammers were made from began to burn, warping and twisting as cold blue flickered over them.

'Out, out now!' Bill's scream was hardly audible to the deafened ears of the others, but the message was clear as he practically threw Tonks out through the exit. A loud splash and undignified swearing passed unnoticed as Bill pulled himself up and limped through. Kingsley took one last look at the battlefield, covered in lumps of granite, and in one area smeared red with Diggle's remains, before he too ducked through the gap.

Molly hesitated desperately hoping that Dumbledore would reappear with Harry. Yet more of the golem like creations squeezed their way up from inside the earth. With a heart-rending sob Molly squeezed through the crack and back into the sunlight. Moments later the jammers fizzled out, trapping the statues inside, along with Dumbledore and presumably Harry.

Tonks was attempting to apply healing charms to Bill, his hand was still filled with holes from the explosion of Diggle's wand and the water flowing around them was rapidly turning red with blood. Molly took over swiftly, Tonks' healing spells, like her housekeeping charms were sub-par to say the least.

'Tonks dear, mirror Doge, he needs to know what's going on. We need to let Alastor know, if there is any chance that Dumbledore's still alive he'll be the one who can do something about it.'

It was among the hardest moments in Molly Weasley's life as she fought to stop the blood flowing from Bill's hand, for a wound caused by wand wood is enchanted and the flesh was badly torn. It reminded her all too forcefully of when they had brought back the bodies of her brothers, Fabian and Gideon Prewitt. Bill's cold, unconscious face was to fill her nightmares for weeks to come.

Over head the trees rattled bare branches and the crows took flight, cawing loudly as it began to rain.

* * *

As the blood touched the chains they splintered apart. The great stone throne groaned and with a sound like the snapping of a giant's arm broke in two. Visible magic swirled through the air, exploding outwards in a thunderclap of power. Dumbledore was knocked to the ground by the concussive blast, though Harry, untouched stood, albeit shakily amid the wreckage of his prison. Magic leapt from Harry's palm, golden fire spraying outwards, catching the Pale Man a glancing blow, slamming him aside as Harry expelled the power he had held in check. The torrent of power died quickly, no human body was adapted to deal with such a flow of magic for any length of time, still less that of a half-starved boy. He collapsed, his arms blackened and burnt to the elbow, but for the moment the Pale Man was no where to be seen. Dumbledore picked himself up, groggily, though once he saw Harry's crumpled body he hurried to his side and carefully lifted him up. The boy was light enough to carry with ease, even without a featherlight charm. Performing a few quick healing spells to stabilize Harry as best he could Dumbledore set off back towards the entrance.

He moved in great strides, but a sinking feeling of dread was already filling his stomach. Occasionally tremors shook the tunnel and loose rocks and debris fell to the ground but he did not stop. At last he reached the entrance. The others were gone, in one corner the sandy floor was covered in lumps of flesh, and a torn top hat told the tale of at least one who had fallen. Dumbledore bowed his head in resignation at yet another failure, and with a sweep of his wand to clear the floor carefully placed Harry down upon the sand. From Far away inside the hill came a whooping cry, and then another, and another. Something had awoken. There was little time left and even less if the pallor of Harry's cheeks was anything to go by. There must be some way to escape this place. It came to him like a lightening bolt from the blue, and he berated himself for his stupidity. The entire place was built with blood wards, blood wards charged with the blood of the boy he carried, blood wards which had sprung open when his own blood and been placed upon the chains. Together they were the key and the lock to this place. If anyone could escape then it would be the two of them combined. Picking Harry up once more he turned on the spot, disappearing with a mild crack.

* * *

Deep inside the hill the Pale Man, still picking himself up from the boy's blow smiled as he felt the old wizard tear the wards apart like paper. _Checkmate_.

**A/N:** Right now I am in the middle of my finals, so this may not be the best chapter I've ever written, partially because it was largely written because I've been thinking about it for too long. Not that many of the ideas I had actually came out as they were intended. I hope it didn't jump about too much between scenes.

I hope you enjoy it as a nice bit of action packed stuff. The next chapter evens out the life/battle ratio.

The runes are simply invented. Writing is often a magical and elite system, if I actually had words of power I would _not _let them be commonly known to all and sundry, so I felt that probably muggle and wizard runes differ.

Jonathan's happy anyway.

As always reviews are appreciated.

Thank you to **Change of Faith** for the review, if anyone wants to know the answer then they need merely message me and I will give them an answer. In the long run the truth will out anyway.

Thank you as well to **Wulffe**,** Bgbg**,** Man of Constant Sorrow** and **Siknmagh **(who has provided some very helpful constructive criticism) and the others who have reviewed the work.

If you have any questions then please ask me and I will either provide a public answer or a private one depending on how sensitive the information is. Of course if it is too sensitive then I won't give it away, but there isn't any harm in asking.


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